Another Swiss Short

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A sample of the relationship between a reckless writer and his muse Swiss.

Submitted: August 03, 2011

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Submitted: August 03, 2011

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Swiss's eyes flickered from the flame's glare of my freshly lit cigarette. My manner was loose, and my mind was strong and narrowly racing among a current of refound idealism. I puffed at my cigarette and thought about all the tales I could document, the plots swirled around like a controlled tornado that only I could decode and control, and understand their precision. I stood outside and stared at the bleakness of the night's sky. The bleakness somehow reminded me of the endlessness of one's life, of how time was a leisure to be exploited. It seemed so infinitely limitless there in the dark, I shuttered in the cold but felt entirely invincible.
Swiss cracked the balcony door and peeked out of the glass. "Do you want another?" she asked.
"Sure." I said.
I took a break from my thoughtfulness and stepped inside the apartment. On the table side by side lay two identical lines of cocaine. Swiss took great pride in the uniformity of her lines and the precision and speed which she could create them. It seemed silly to anyone but an experienced user, but nonetheless it mattered to Swiss. "Thank you, darling." I said.
I sat down by the table, rolled a bill next to the lines, and snorted one of them. As I stood up, I again felt an unyielding optimism and the drug gave me a boost of momentum, springing to enjoy the overlooked in the mundane. I puffed at a cigarette contentedly. There was nothing much to do then, but I enjoyed the moment anyway.
Swiss came outside to join me and began to whine. "Darling, I'm entirely bored."
"It's late or early rather, there's nothing much to be done. I was thinking I'd work on some writing."
"Why don't we lay down for a bit?"
"No, no. You know it's much too late for that. Besides I should put in some work on the novel."
I walked inside and noticed that Swiss looked a bit agitated. I knew how moody Swiss could get towards the end of a long night. She never could really handle the lack of sleep. She sat down on the couch and I noticed her delicate features. She had very narrow cheekbones which complemented her blueish grey eyes, narrow, fine lips that were highlighted with pink lipstick, and a strong flat nose. What I always noticed about Swiss were her cheeks which always were quite rosey. Swiss was tall in stature, and delicately thin. Everyone thought she was beautiful, and I wondered if she thought it too.
"You only write when you're all fucked up." Swiss snapped.
"It triggers the creative process for me."
"Yes, even so. You never do any work sober, that makes you a bum writer."
Swiss had damaged my previous infallable bubble of optimism. I knew that she was truly right, I searched for some kind of retort but my mind began breaking, stuttering for some defense of logic. She began again, "You rely on it for inspiration, it controls you. Don't you see it undermines the whole thing, all of the work."
I searched for a distraction, this confrontation made me uneasy. I needed something to block my realization. I felt weak and sullen as I grasped her statement. I glared in silence at my right hand which began to shake feverishly. "I'm going to work now." I muttered with a false sense of vigor. I was incapable of admitting to her accusations, I would not submit to such an easy defeat.
"Alright, I'm leaving. I need to buy smokes, I'll be back in a while."
I was pleased with myself for not allowing Swiss creedence. Let her leave I thought, let me reclaim my happy solitude. I was still wounded, but it was good to be alone. I sat down at my cluttered desk, and began to stare at the blank page in front of me. I stared there for a long time, my mind was blank. I reasoned once I had a beginning, some opening, that everything would begin to flow. If I could only get down that first bit. I looked over at the table, at the whiteness of the line contrasting the laquer of the table. I stood up focusing again on that fine, white line of cocaine. It was if it was gesturing to me, beckoning to me. I stood in the middle of the room glancing at the blank page then at the table, and again and so on. I sat down at the table hesitantly, grabbed the bill and reluctantly said, the writing is going to hell.


© Copyright 2018 Neil Stanoff. All rights reserved.

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