Michael in the dark wood
The sun had set, but the moon would not rise for three hours. Michael Sullivan walked to the window and stared out to the dark wood outside. He lived in the uppermost floor of a college dormitory which stood six stories tall, holding back the forest like a dark green sea behind.
A layer of fog had moved in from the ocean and hidden the stars from the university campus on the hill, of which Michael's dormitory was a part. He retreated from the view, back to his desk. He sat and read back what he had written minutes before:
Without a clear conception of the proper path, Roger felt himself lost. Although Roger did not know which way to go, he did realize his lack of direction. If he had the failing of being unsure of the proper course; at least he knew of his shortcomings, unlike the great number of his fellows for whom ignorance was a welcome bliss.
That was where he had stopped typing. Michael felt he was lost in his own words. The words on the page were for Helen Zachary, for the novel he intended to write for her. Helen Zachary was Michael's TA in his Introduction to American Fiction class, and he was very much in love with her.
Michael didn't know what the novel was to be about, exactly. He wanted his novel to make her able to understand him. How could he write the novel so she would comprehend his feelings?
Rising again, Michael looked over to his bed. His room-mate Andy had gone out for the night and wouldn't be back until well after midnight. Michael went over and lowered his body onto the middle of the bed. He closed his eyes. He felt a tingle and touched himself for comfort, though he knew it was wrong. He stopped and laid his hands at his side. He took a deep breath and tried to think of Helen and what more he could tell her.
Helen, the word made flesh, appeared before him, bright and naked. He could not really see her body, though he knew she wore nothing in front of him. She reached out to him and said:
"Michael, I've been searching for someone like you. How can you masturbate? Write instead. It's all the same thing, anyway," Helen added, smiling kindly.
Michael awoke. Helen disappeared. His room appeared as it was. He slid his body over and dropped his feet to the floor. Rising quickly he went to the desk and read what he had written before he fell asleep.
After Michael finished reading, he looked back through the window, open by about two inches to keep the room's air fresh, and again peered into the trees. The passage, which had seemed to exactly sum up his feelings when he had written it, now seemed incomplete.
Michael thought of himself adrift, rowing a small boat across a wide, flat lake. It was unfathomably deep and dark, but whether the water was hot or cold he could not discern. Helen was with him, reading from a map, telling him to keep going the way he was-but nothing was to be seen in any direction.
Michael considered adding this to his novel, but rejected it as too hopeless. He needed to study, but decided to try and get to sleep before his roommate returned. He went to brush his teeth, and returned to change into his pajamas.
After lying quietly for a while, Michael fell into a fitful sleep. Michael dreamed that he was crossing the wide lake, except that now he was being pursued by three formless, nameless shapes. The shapes were a furious nothingness, signifying only rue and loss.
A layer of fog had moved in from the ocean and hidden the stars from the university campus on the hill, of which Michael's dormitory was a part. He retreated from the view, back to his desk. He sat and read back what he had written minutes before:
Without a clear conception of the proper path, Roger felt himself lost. Although Roger did not know which way to go, he did realize his lack of direction. If he had the failing of being unsure of the proper course; at least he knew of his shortcomings, unlike the great number of his fellows for whom ignorance was a welcome bliss.
That was where he had stopped typing. Michael felt he was lost in his own words. The words on the page were for Helen Zachary, for the novel he intended to write for her. Helen Zachary was Michael's TA in his Introduction to American Fiction class, and he was very much in love with her.
Michael didn't know what the novel was to be about, exactly. He wanted his novel to make her able to understand him. How could he write the novel so she would comprehend his feelings?
Rising again, Michael looked over to his bed. His room-mate Andy had gone out for the night and wouldn't be back until well after midnight. Michael went over and lowered his body onto the middle of the bed. He closed his eyes. He felt a tingle and touched himself for comfort, though he knew it was wrong. He stopped and laid his hands at his side. He took a deep breath and tried to think of Helen and what more he could tell her.
Helen, the word made flesh, appeared before him, bright and naked. He could not really see her body, though he knew she wore nothing in front of him. She reached out to him and said:
"Michael, I've been searching for someone like you. How can you masturbate? Write instead. It's all the same thing, anyway," Helen added, smiling kindly.
Michael awoke. Helen disappeared. His room appeared as it was. He slid his body over and dropped his feet to the floor. Rising quickly he went to the desk and read what he had written before he fell asleep.
After Michael finished reading, he looked back through the window, open by about two inches to keep the room's air fresh, and again peered into the trees. The passage, which had seemed to exactly sum up his feelings when he had written it, now seemed incomplete.
Michael thought of himself adrift, rowing a small boat across a wide, flat lake. It was unfathomably deep and dark, but whether the water was hot or cold he could not discern. Helen was with him, reading from a map, telling him to keep going the way he was-but nothing was to be seen in any direction.
Michael considered adding this to his novel, but rejected it as too hopeless. He needed to study, but decided to try and get to sleep before his roommate returned. He went to brush his teeth, and returned to change into his pajamas.
After lying quietly for a while, Michael fell into a fitful sleep. Michael dreamed that he was crossing the wide lake, except that now he was being pursued by three formless, nameless shapes. The shapes were a furious nothingness, signifying only rue and loss.
Works
Recent Writing
- 1989 A Novel: Tim and April walk to the liquor store
- Volume III: Helen meets Roxy for coffee at the Fremont College coffee shop
- Volume III: Tim walks back from Contemporary American Fiction
- Volume III: Helen conducts section, can’t prevent Michael from being dissed
- Volume III: Helen conducts section (HSZ version)