Impromptu Séance, page 1
a Serial of
Copyright Stacy Stutz
Table of Contents:
Hi, and welcome to the start of my grand experiment. This “book” is the third of a series of semi-monthly installments of short stories. The “serial” novel (or novella) has a long history dating back to at least, One Thousand and One Tales. I believe its heyday may have been in Dickens’ day. Print was in its infancy, books were costly, and mostly out of reach of the common man, however more and more people could read. Sound familiar?
Even as the market for fiction writers in the print market has shrunk and the digital market has expanded making it possible for anyone with access to a computer and the internet to become published writers, the same troubles exist for the unknown writer – garnering a decent reader base. We jump through many a hoop to have one or two people read our work and it’s no less demoralizing than a wall covered with rejection notices. The most successful Indie writer is not only a good writer (or at the least a passable one) he is a really good marketer. It’s the marketing side of things that has brought me to this point – yup – this is a gimmick.
Feigning sleep, I sit in an old rocking chair. Young nurses keep popping their heads in and out of my door, making sure I'm still breathing; like vultures, they attend my death. They want me to move, to go to my bed – but I shall not. I know my life is slowly departing as every breath becomes shallower. I inhale the medicinal air of the nursing home then exhale, expending a small measure of life. I'm comfortable with this; death’s a friend of the frail and infirm and I shall not meet her lying upon a hospital bed, I do not fear this journey, for it leads to another existence. I know it's there. I've touched it. Soon, very soon, the answer I've searched for most my life will be revealed.
As less and less oxygen reaches my mind, I start to feel lightheaded, punch-drunk. My thoughts flit lightly over long forgotten memories and every once and awhile I pause in bemused wonderment, was I so innocent, so naive, once upon a time. Visions of my past flicker upon my closed eyelids, streaming by my mind’s eye memories of my children, my husband my life until, finally, I can no longer ignore the pull of the memory I long to forget, the one I can’t bear to let go, the memories of that night. They are a flash-burned snapshot, images polarized and imprinted deep upon my very soul. A night spent not far from home, a journey followed by a lifetime of pilgrimage soon to be over.