I'm not sure if this happens to other people. Actually I'm almost certain that it happens to only a very small responsible, impulsive, but forgetful segment of the population.
I was reading
If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, actually a mere minutes ago, when I was truck with the memory of two stories that I had lost somewhere. Perhaps they were eaten by a computer. Perhaps I printed them and abandonned them, who knows, but the point is that I don't know where they are and they have quite possibly disappeared forever. The other thing that is wuite bad is that I distinctly remember thinking that they were good, and I tend to be right about these sort of judgements regarding my work. I must put together the scraps like a memory detective because I haven't completely given up on them and will eventually in my loneliness return to them some weekend evening.
Okay.
"The Diamond Man, the Glimmer Man"
This story was based on a dream vision I had, overwhelmingly cinematic in the action adventure suspense genre. There was a man, a secret agent of some sort looking for gems or some object. The code words were "The diamond man the glimmer man." He had somehow been led to a large suburban mall, well lit. 1st person pov. Something goes wrong with the plan. His contact is a club kid, a girl wearing white Euro-trash platform shoes and a brightly colored bob. Something has gone wrong, when he says the trigger words she gives him a strange look. Chase ensues, a purse of gems falls and is retrieved in the scuffle. He loses them.
"Oranges"
Multiple pov apartment scene from the view points of a couple fucking on a couch, the couch, a citrus fruit on their kitchen table, and two kids watching them from the street through their window.
"He She Phoebe Jacques"
Takes place after a Phoebe has sex with Jacques and he is taking a shower (without her)because she has bled on him and her couch. She feels dejected and a little ashamed then angry. She's sitting on the kitchen counter in her panties and she starts looking at a postcard of Brigitte Bardot on his fridge. Phoebe is not a blonde and not French, note. She starts talking to the postcard, gets angry, paints her body with Nutella stripes like war paint and burns the photo on the stove burner.
There was another spy story with secret messages being slipped into mouths, secret capsules hidden in molars. I can't remember it very well.
Then there was the one about Elyse and the dentist. Catholic school girl, erotic ideation for dentist, teeth pulling, snapping noises. LAter hit in the head with a volleyball and called period mouth by her entire class.
"Cowboys and Aliens"
Possibly the worst story I have ever written. Girl in weird suburb, sacrifices herself to aliens in front of a barn for a community that will never know about it/give a fuck. Hurrah!
I suppose I should rewrite them. Sigh...
