The Stranger
Originally written in 2010, and revisited here in 2018, this the previous versions were...products of the writer I was at those times. I was trying to be clever and it worked but was very much a self-serving piece of meta-fiction. This new version is an attempt to level up my writing. I think I succeeded. It still needs a few proofreading passes, but this has reached the level of 'I used to blog that" quality. Enjoy! Our "Writer", let's call him that, was just about the settle into the rhythm of typing on his laptop when a voice shattered his fragile ramp towards creation. "What are you writing?" they asked. The Writer sighed and stole a quick glance towards his uninvited interlocutor. "I'm trying to get this story out of my mind before it leaves me. Please don't let me distract you."
"That's a wise strategy" answered the one we'll call The Stranger, as they not only ignored the hint but sat down across from him. "Tell me what it's all about."
The Writer gave them a look of mild distaste and settled for the path of least resistance.
"Ok, this morning I had an idea about a writer writing a story..." Seeing the stranger's expression, he ground his teeth together, "I know, that may sounds like a cliché, but a writer is bound to follow his muse." They were clearly getting on his nerves.
The stranger grinned. "Indeed he must. I see you're one of those clever meta writers like Stephen King. I'd be curious to see how you'd tackle such a challenge." The Writer couldn't help feeling he was being put upon.
The stranger took their phone out and, after a few swipes, stared intently at it.
Hoping they'd finally lost interest, nor quite caring where they sat, our Writer dove back into his story just as a notification badge slipped away from the top of his screen. He chose to ignore it.
"Wait, are you writing about what's happening now" They said, "In real time? Surely, I can't be that annoying."
The Writer's expression gets lost between disdain and surprise as he sees these words fly on his screen. Hi there! Oh he's looking at me again. I wave discreetly.
"The Fuck? How...?" the writer was at a loss for words? Sensing his anxiety rise, he saw the signs he'd missed while ignoring his new antagonist. It was all there, right after the word "discreetly" at the end of his previous paragraph; a green cursor, and then another avatar besides his own at the top of his document, a simple green circle with "CI" in it.
He looked up at the Stranger who was sitting straighter now, eyes locked on their phone but no longer typing on it. "Oh, I'm an antagonist now? Now, aren't you a bit of a drama queen?"
"Fuck off!" Even red hot as it was, part of the Writer's brain was cringing at how hard he was typing now "How the hell did you gain access to my files? You some kind of hacker-voyeur?"
The stranger's grin widened, more smirk than smile, mixing arrogance with amusement. "You need someone to be the heel of this tale and I happen to be a convenient coincidence and graceful alliteration. I mean, who else could possibly populate this dried out desert of self-serving, indulgent prose?"
"Stop adding to my story!" Then open your goddamn mind and stop being so defensive!
Shocked once more, The Writer stops typing, I almost feel sorry for him but you're so close!
"Will you STOP doing that? Who the FUCK are you?" The Writer clicks on the "CI" icon but sees that all options, including blocking access to his file, are greyed out. Careful with that tense change, sweetie. Swapping away The Stranger's intrusion like one would an overly curious wasp, he noticed their email account: "[email protected]".
"Stop fighting it so hard." she said. "I know it doesn't look like it, but I'm rooting for you to dig deeper and polish this story into a gem. For instance, do you realize you haven't written anything about your environment yet? Also, why are you so hellbent on hiding that I'm a woman? You can stop with the neutral pronouns, you know."
She eyed him cryptically as the din of the café crashed all around him...
The writer hesitated, yet kept his fingers flying not only bring the story back into the fold of his strong introspective style, but to keep this "Creative Intruder" out of his very creative space. He kept his eyes firmly on her. He didn't have to see what was on the screen but typing like that made him nervous. It felt like his ideas were being sucked into a void, never to be seen again. Yet, he couldn't stop himself, the story had acquired a life of its own, a life that had dragged another character made whole cloth like a cat dragged an unwanted dead mouse into the house and expected its owner to reward it.
"Oh, good one" she exclaimed. "An apt metaphors is not always easy to come by." She placed her phone on the table, crossed her arms and looked at him very intensely, her sardonic smile replaced by something strangely more predatory, as if she was a narrative hunter on the prowl for his wayward paragraphs.
Idly looking at her phone, she said "Another nice metaphor at the end there, but it needs be said". She leaned forward. "Mr. Writer, will you settle down once and for all with how you wish to capitalize our names?"
The Writer's made a face again a grimace really, but made a 'gimme a moment' sign with his left hand while touch-typing with the other. It was, if not a peace gesture, at least an invitation for a détente.
"Look" he said, "I don't know who you are, or what you are. For all I know you're some sick Magic Pixie Girl manifestation mixed with my tweenaged crush on my middle school teacher, so just please gimme a moment before we start doing...
The Writer gestures wildly at us both, his expression slowly coming down from the mountains of bewildered indignation into the valleys of annoyed curiosity... "Hey!" he pauses again, "Okay, that one's pretty good but just let me look around some."
The Stranger laid back on her chair, lifting both hands in her own appeasing gesture and then made the "my lips are sealed" sign.
He took a deep breath to calm his frazzled brain and, finally, looked around...
The hustle and bustle of the "Espresso Shot", a soulless 3rd wave coffee shop, was akin to the discordant soundtrack of modern day suburbia made tangible by the pseudo light jazz playing from hidden speakers weaved into the squawking dialogs issuing from the dopamine-chasers' blinged out phones. All this accompanied by the drunken drumline of the grinding and banging percussions of too many espressos being made in in too short a time.
Still, the place had all kinds of sights, sights he still thought didn't add much to the story but worth reconsidering. He saw The Stranger nod encouragingly. "Did you notice how you still being annoyed by my intrusion affects how everything sounds around you?" The Writer gathered his thoughts for a moment, almost managing to keep a neutral expression while she gave him the most innocent looking smile his way. "God, she's annoying" he thought. No moving back to an internal dialogue, ya done! Onwards you go!
There were two, college-aged baristas running the whole store. They stood behind an oversize, overstocked counter filled to the brim with freshly stale baked goods all with silly names like "Lavender Tenders" and sillier prices like "8,99$". The young women were cute in the way that Gen Z girls could be, wearing the meticulously carefree beige-toned outfits of the fast fashion and faster monetization of their favourite content creators.
His fingers picked up the pace, his eyes locked into his condescending coach's. I've always had a thing for alliterations (I know, you dropped one a few paragraphs ago and basically begged for a reward) I am shocked by your accusation! He stood transfixed, as if momentarily turned to stone by Medusa. His focus muting all sounds but the click-clack of fingers chasing the narrative ghosts of a rapidly fading dream.
"Damn!", the Stranger said "have we awakened the hibernating bear?
The Writer smiled faintly.
"Stop the presses, the man can smile!"
"All right," said The Writer, his smile lingering but not quite reaching his eyes (Indeed, I still don't know what to make of you) Let's not start an episcopal correspondence here, this is no Jasper Fforde novel (who died and made you Editor in Chief of WriterLand?) Laughing genuinely, she set her silvered phone back on the checkered tablecloth of their round, intimate table. She made a "go on" gesture.
The Writer blinked for a few seconds, the last slivers of of annoyance receding as something not yet definable rose. He'd been framing this woman sitting across him, this pure Stranger as nothing more than an intrusive thought, worse, a cliché stapled to a prepubescent fantasy. He'd made her annoying and condescending, but that was a bit unfair, she wasn't like that. Nah, I was a bit but I needed to get through to you (Okay, fine, I'll accept the apology).
He reached to take a sip of his tea, realizing the cup was empty... Had been for quite some time.
The stranger sat unmoving, staring into his eyes; you call them brown, but you like it when others say they're hazelnut. The Writer decided to ride the narrative instead of fighting her quips. "All right," she said, "you called me a Manic Pixie Girl, you brought me into your story, so what's next? We both know this trope doesn't end well for either of us." She sat there, looking into his soul. "Keep pushing forward! For instance, now that you aren't as mad as you were a moment ago, how about we start describing what I look like?
The Stranger reached out and gently picked up her glitzy phone, brushing a lock of her long chestnut hair behind her right ear where a few thin gold hoops and a tiny ruby studs accented her Summer tanned skin. She gave him a faint, almost timid smile. She started typing, her long, ruby-red manicured nails adding a sharp clicking contrast to the sounds of their surroundings. As she turned her gaze toward the writer again, her shiny lacquered nails racing across her screen, its reflection showing as two white squares in her wide, glasses whose rims matched the red on her hands and ears, she said "Don't you find this better? Adding a slew of tiny details here and there created a stronger foundation for your story, it grounds it in something real."
The Writer started typing again. Behind her glasses, the Stranger's grey-green soft eyes compounded her friendly expression. Curious, The Writer, glanced away from his screen, and for the breath of one short moment, looked at me, his Stranger.
"All right, smart-ass" he said with a glint in his eyes, "if you're going to be that deep into my shit you, need to to keep your end of the deal. I'm here, I'm pouring my soul into this wretched thing. What do you suggest we do with the story from now on?"
"Now that you've already done of the heavy lifting to uplift your prose, how about we tackle the very DNA of your story?" she said, her facial expression posed, her hands steepled, her gaze invested.
The Writer, frowned, *seemingly about to disagree* but he remained silent. Leaving the floor open to her full challenge.
"I really don't think your story has to be 'boy meets brilliant and beautiful girl that looks like Ms Peabody, girl fixes broken story, starstruck boy realizes she was the only one who could fix his clunky writing, THE END"
(It's interesting that you decided to pivot my story to make it about you)
I mean, I am a brilliant girl after all
"I'm not convinced." said The Writer, "Let's say we scrape off the veneer of your latest narrative hockey puck grab and extract the core of your point, why shouldn't we embrace a successful story structure that's been proven to work?
"Proven, yes, but it's not the only kind. Why does this one specifically need to fit the traditional 3 act structure?" She asked, her eyes looking deep into his, her expression dead serious, like she wanted him to understand that this was THE question finally! You're starting to get it (I am?)"Why must it always be about conflict?" she said with burning intensity.
Well because, the Writer thinks, without conflict, there's no story.
There's always a story The Stranger answers, her reverberating words leaving a burning imprint in his mind.
The Writer fixes his gaze on the screen, dreading what's about to happen next, not wanting to take his eyes from it, refusing to do it.
what gave me away? Her fleeting voice echoes at the edge of his perception.
When you said her name...
that's why we never needed a conflict. we both want the same thing. you just didn't know how to get to the end of the story. yet, you've always had it in you.
The Writer's fingers slow down on his keyboard.
So be it. Let that be our story then.
you'll thank yourself some day... trust me because I always did.
