An Anthology of Books to Be
Some people start reading books but for unknown reasons never finish them. Conversely, I rarely start a book I do not finish, yet often I begin to compose one, but it stays unfinished. I am a dabbling storyteller with daunting dreams of celebrated fame who possesses only fair discipline, which makes my goals elusive.
Artfully, I devised the grand idea of a book of incomplete narratives. A work of this sort would be easier to complete because I could opt out when I got tired of the subject matter or if my mind drew blanks and I could not pen or craft anything further. The whole concept is so outlandish and unorthodox it might win me a chance at publication.
English teachers might use the book as a learning tool: “Don’t do this…” but hopefully, “Why not try this?” If wannabe authors grab the book for inspiration, the introduction would encourage them to run with my beginnings, stating, “I’ve had my chance, now it’s yours!” Or perhaps a bibliophile with a short attention span might enjoy brief narratives in a Reader’s Digest-type-of-way if they can get over the fact that the tale or discourse does not have a resolution.
I am not sure of the genre of this book because it would include fiction and nonfiction and even compositions that could be considered memoir or spiritual. Some chapters or sections would comprise works that measure only half a page, while others would occupy several pages. I should also include blank, lined pages between segments so that the reader can make notations or draft his or her own conclusion.
Hopefully, those who pick up the opus will enjoy my brisk, but crisp pieces and eventually devour the total of my beginnings. Ultimately and gratefully, I will have completed something worth editing. And that, in the end, is at least a finish.
For enticement purposes, I have included a prelude to an untitled novella which I hope brings you delight and creativity. Here’s to happy endings!
“Come on, girls! Hurry up or you’ll be late!” he hollered toward the giggles from inside the kitchen. It had been exactly three months since Marshall’s life had changed. He now had full custody of his eight-year-old twins and life was smoother and sweeter. His day-to-day routine kept him busy and active, so much so that his previous lifestyle sometimes seemed like three years had passed.
From the garage entryway, he checked to see if the bus had rounded the bend onto the gravel road that paralleled the neighbor’s field. A crow cawed from the galvanized fence that separated the two properties, and he glanced upward just in time to see it take flight with what looked like carrion in its beak. He could not help pondering as he observed its fan-like tail, that it was peculiar for the black bird to be on its own.
He shuddered for a moment as he recalled something his grandmother once warned — that in mythology, crows are usually associated with a sense of foreboding. “Sighting a single crow symbolizes bad luck coming to your doorstep,” he could hear her whisper as they traversed through her garden surveying her herbs and blooms. As he turned back to gather the girls, Marshall recoiled, finding it hard to dismiss the bleak thoughts in his mind and focus instead on what lay ahead.