[Insert Title Here] Volume 100

The Fiction We Tell Ourselves (Reimagined) - III

Several hours later, the apartment room almost exudes the tense atmosphere that the two writers were giving off. Albert’s workplace is a warzone. Fascinating sketches of places and even people are scattered all over the counters. It’s not specified on how much paper you can use, after all. The written work itself is being bound up through metal rings.

“Prepare to be astonished, Robert.”

Meanwhile, Robert’s workplace is neat and orderly. All the papers are organized, even the drafts, and the pencils and eraser are already returned to their resting places. Should I taunt him by asking “Famous last words?” just to get a twitch out of him? He thought to himself.

He leaves his room. He expects Albert’s place to be littered with scrap paper, but surprisingly, he managed to pile his papers into one big stack while his story is in hand. The other writer sipped tea from a cup he brewed prior and gave a knowing wink. “You done now, or off for a tinkle?”

He rolls his eyes. “Bring it on, you cove. Let me see what you’re capable of.” The two of them sat face-to-face on opposing ends. Robert’s story is smaller but thicker. Albert’s is taller but with less pages.

“I wonder if you ever slept on your other mattress,” he says. “I’ve had my fair share of experiences when I couldn’t stand my own springy bed, but sometimes just sleep on the couch on a whim.”

“Oh, I’d like to think that won’t happen, because I know I’m going to win,” he says.

Survive, said the prophet, Albert whispers internally, for good luck. “You know, we can add on to the challenge, since we’ve got some bit of daylight left. Something like the punishment for the losing party, other than sleeping on the ground…”

“Hmm, something creative…” Robert strokes his chin. “How about the other person has to Irish dance on the roof, in the moonlight, naked.”

“Oooh, I second that idea!”

“Excellent. Now let’s examine our books, starting with ladies first.”

Ignoring the backward comment, he opens his short story. It is titled, Cartography. “It’s about a cynical man, who out of loneliness, secretly covets a friend. He eventually starts talking to a girl on the neighbouring balcony, and she soon introduces him a new perspective to life.”

“Intriguing. Does this take place in an apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he pay his rent regularly?”

“Whatever you say,” he scoffs.

“Sounds like a cliché love story though.”

“Ah, but it isn’t, you see. While it has the essence of a potential romance story, it predominantly maintains the theme of friendship over the entire plot. And besides, I’m no ordinary writer, get that.”

Albert glances at Robert’s piece, Taken for Granted. “Yours sound like it belongs in a movie,” he says.

“Heh, it’s just another solid work. It’s about a manslaughter criminal trapped by time itself and tormented in endlessly until he learns to forgive himself and be forgiven.”

Albert could barely hold back on suppressing his intensity. That’s such a good premise, he thought.

The two of them allowed silence to reign as they scrolled through their partner’s story. They gave their all in writing, so they would also give their all in critical reading. Robert’s work is an intricate process of morality portrays the delirious fashion of temporal purgatory. Meanwhile Albert’s work stirs up feelings of relatable emotions which so vividly engrave themselves in one’s mind, it gives you goose bumps. The feeling of anxiety when the characters are put in a state of self-decision, gives you goosebumps.

When they’ve finished reading, they gave back each other’s papers. For the most part, Robert’s work is exactly what they call him. Amusing in some places, intense in others. It balances serenity with faster paced scenes well. The only setback is the world building, which is well concealed or avoided entirely, because in scenes where there is world building…

“…it turns out flat.” Albert says. “But on the characters, especially the protagonist… I never thought I’d relate so well with a murderer.”

Robert grins. “That’s my specialty, after all. The train of psychosis is on similar tracks as your subconscious. You can’t tell right from wrong, or wrong from right.” He makes a gesture with his head over at Albert’s work. “Meanwhile, you’ve got a great sense on describing your surroundings. Dialogue could be more meaningful, and characters could be fleshed out more, but your skills at world building makes it so that your story is never interrupted.”

Albert claps his hands. “Exactly what I was thinking! You see now, Robert, this is all the more reason to work together. We can make up for our blunders and expound upon our strengths. A masterpiece is entirely possible, if it’s the two of us in it for the long haul!”

“Aye! I’ll agree to that. We’ll commence the writing from tomorrow on.”

So they exchanged a bit more, some remarks, some criticism, but neither strayed from the conversation, nor did it get boring. When night fell, Albert asked if one of them was going to Irish dance naked on the roof, but he was dismissed with a simple, “After we’ve made it.”

“Okay, but who’s sleeping on the floor?”

He stares at him for a long time before saying, “You,” before closing the door behind him.

“Pfft. What a bulldog.”

Lying on his old yet comfortable floor mattress, he shuts his eyes in anticipation for the weeks to come.