PART 1 - by @zen-art
PART 2 - by @ireenchew

PART 3

“Clouds… You bless them when you could use the shade, you curse them when you crave the light. You wonder why they didn’t save your skin from burning although you knew they wouldn’t. You learned about them in elementary school and you hear about them on the TV in the evening when your grandfather asked you to please, be quiet for a minute. While in the mood, you admire them when the Sun hits at an angle to produce impressive sky decors…”

The Writer stretched back in his comfortable chair for just a couple of seconds as if to increase the drama and then pounced at the keys again.

“... But most of the time you ignore them. I wouldn’t say you shouldn’t. It would be too much to bear in mind everything that surrounds you at all times, wouldn’t it? Fortunately, you have me, The Narrator. The entity in the clouds whose vast mind can simultaneously encompass each water molecule and its direction, as well as all of the memory it has and all the things it would reflect. You did create me, inadvertently…”

That was it!

‘I will create you, quite intentionally’, The Writer thought. ‘You are to be my Pinocchio. The masterpiece I need to leave behind - the one to be remembered through the centuries. The Life to keep me company while I’m still here. The one to take care of The Man Who Forgot Who He Was, of Carolina Lawman, of all the others. An imprint of myself, in part, but also of its own free will and talent. Ah, one can at least dream…’

That’s when his phone rang and on the other end of the line was Gina, his agent, reminding him of their scheduled meeting and at the same time telling him she would like to reschedule for later.

‘Sorry, Will, the kids will be back from summer camp earlier. Forest fires in the area. So I have to go pick them up from the station today...’

He did not know what made him say:

‘Oh, is that it? You know you can bring them here for some tea and treats while we talk. We’ve got nothing to hide, now, have we?’

‘Are you sure?’, Gina sounded genuinely surprised by this quite uncharacteristic offer of his.

He wasn’t sure anymore, but he couldn’t say so now. So he decided to roll with it and to hell with consequences. Which couldn’t hurt so much, could they? Nothing hurt worst than this chronic malady of his.

‘Absolutely!’, he replied with some authentic enthusiasm in his voice.

‘Well, alright, see you at teatime then’, said Gina in a hurry as if she were driving and then she hung up.

He was not cross at her, he was more angry at himself for slipping out of character. But he could afford that with his agent whom he trusted entirely and was generally grateful for. That woman was a real machine when it came to efficiency. And it was years since he had a look at her twins. If they were to grow even the tiniest bit as intelligent as their mother, they would be a pleasure to talk to very soon.

‘Let’s get back to my own child in the clouds, now!’

“... as it might be, when you…”

And it was gone!

Alright. Not to panic. It happened. None of his readers would believe it, his editor wouldn’t hear of it, but sometimes, albeit less frequent than once in a whole book, he had experienced writer’s block before. He had, had he not?
The trouble was the pain returned. In force. And equipped for a long battle.

He tried a breathing exercise. He tried walking up and down the staircase to his second floor. He thought of maybe drinking some hard liquor but he remembered he was expecting guests in less than a couple of hours.

‘So soon? Yes, always too soon. Time flies on me and I am nowhere yet…’

But he remembered that in moments like this the only thing that would work was to put his mind away from it. The writing. He couldn’t put it away from the pain, it just did not happen. So he put his jacket on and went for a short walk around the neighborhood. Not a single cloud in the sky.

‘An where would my child abide when that happens? Well, travel around the world, of course. There were always clouds somewhere. He would be everywhere and nowhere specifically.’

The walk was already getting productive. And the pain was lessening. It had to do with stress. With frustration, rather. But the more one tried to avoid frustration, the more it took hold. Should you accept it... Yes, he knew in theory that when one accepted frustration, or pain for that matter, it was supposed to slack off and eventually go. It was the ‘How’ of it that was the problem…

There!

‘I know what my brain child, The Narrator, will become. He will be able to learn everything about the human world and make his own stories. I only don’t know how. Yet. A productive walk, indeed.’

He took some freshly baked biscuits on his way home and he was just in time to prepare for guests.

They were on time as one would expect from Gina and hers. Liz and Gerry were eleven now.

‘Hello, Mr. Lemons!’, they both cried when he opened the door.

He was not a bit angry about their game of turning Lems, his popular family name, into something citrus. He knew that was their way of showing affection. Or at least it had been so four years ago. The childish habit apparently stood its ground.

‘Hi, Watsons. Hi, Gina. Please, come in!’, he stood aside saying that, allowing them entrance into the lobby.

‘Hi, Will, how are you?’, Gina asked, always calm and polite when in formal or any other situation he had ever observed.

‘I had one today’, he later told her at the table when the kids had already dealt with their biscuits, forsaken their tea and set off to scout around.

‘A fit?’

She looked concerned as she always was but he did not want her to feel sorry about him so he waved that away.

‘Nah, that’s always with me. Writer’s block I mean. Hadn’t happened recently.’

‘Well’, she was actually smiling, ‘that only means you are onto something big. Huge, maybe. We can’t think the illustrious William Lems having trouble over any ordinary concept, now, can we?’

He nodded in some kind of silent agreement but remained serious. Then they were at other business, discussing contracts and signings in a few major cities.

They had almost forgotten about the kids up until a click and a flash and a giggle attracted their attention. They were standing in front of the typewriter where the manuscript still stood, only half page out.

‘Liz! What exactly do you think you’re doing?’, Gina asked, showing more temper than what the writer was used to.

‘But, Mom, I only took a snap at this awesome antique!’, the child replied, a touch of drama in her act. ‘Look, there’s even a typed on sheet sticking perfectly out of it. My followers are going to love it!’

‘Followers!? Little lady, you are not going to show this to anyone!’, Gina snapped.

Now that was a temper.

‘Told you’, came Gerry’s teasing comment, almost low enough to be a whisper.

‘Please, Gina’, the writer just had to interfere despite of his trust in his agent and the knowledge that she knew what she was doing. He just wanted her and her children to feel comfortable with him, they all deserved that. ‘There’s nothing wrong, let’s not make it a big deal. It’s not like the the world will change because of this. Besides, I’m sure Liz wouldn’t show it since we’ve asked. And there’s nothing there to show, yet, really.’

He couldn’t be more wrong. And he was about to learn new meanings of the word ‘clouds’...

TO BE CONTINUED...

Yours,

Manol

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