Today on ShadowSpinners we welcome John Burridge, who brings us a tale of mystery, inspiration, and not-so-ordinary objects.
I linger outside the supermarket where I sometimes write. The hot sky is the color of ash, as if someone has smeared the remains of a BBQ pit across heaven. The breeze makes it seem like the grey smudge above hides rain, but the forecast is for heat and an insulating inversion. I’m tempted to make this a drinking night–the day’s been frustrating–but I opt to try to write instead. A cold blast of air-conditioning hits my face as I walk inside.
I stalk through the aisles, try to find something that will inspire me to write, purchase some healthy-ish snacks, then head upstairs. The table I normally write at in the supermarket’s mezzanine is occupied by an older lady with the props of homelessness: an over-burdened cart, which might have been an IV rack in a past life, its thick grey wheels signaling that it’s possibly from a hospital or nursing home, with full, plastic rival-market shopping bags hanging from it.
I cast about the mezzanine and end up at another table; like all the others, it’s a cool, dark, and highly polished sheet of marble or artisanal concrete, flecked with mica glinting like stars.
I set up my tablet, plug in headphones against the inevitable wailing children, cell-phone-using psychiatry patients, and estranged roommates. I type–hoping that this time the words will flow like a spring in an oasis; like the aurora borealis at midnight; like a pod of dolphins dancing among the waves; like lover’s kisses along the nape, around the hollow of the neck, and over those places loved best.
Instead, I write ten or so lines of bad Oscar Wilde pastiche and maybe three lines about the Prince of Lyres standing over splinters of his instrument in front of the still locked gates of the underworld. Gee, thanks, subconscious. Tell me something I don’t already know.
Then the children, their mothers, the cell-phone users, and irked roommates parade by my foreign workspace–each one stomping the floor in just the right place to make my borrowed workspace tremble. This would never happen at my regular table, which is not on the path to the market’s restrooms.
The old woman–pushing her cart before her–joins the parade, makes for the elevator, and exits the mezzanine.
By this time, I’m thinking this isn’t going to be a good writing night and I should just go meet up with my ex-critique group for a drink–but, it’s still early, and, actually, I should be saving my money. A math tutoring session at the next table over decides me that if I’m going to not-write doggerel, I may as well do it in a better setting. Besides, an attendant with antiseptic spray and cleaning rag has swooped over the vacated tables. I scoop up snacks, pack, tablet, and keyboard, and I walk–headphones still on–to my regular spot.
I get to the table and there in the dark-sky-and-mica-star center of it is a paperclip. Which slaps me back in time. Weeks ago last June, at an elder-stateswoman-writer’s memorial, someone told a story about paperclips. A few days before the writer died, the story-teller (an atheist) and the writer were joking around about supposed afterlives and randomly came up with the word “paperclip” as the message the writer would send as proof if she found herself in heaven. The day after, the story-teller, in a moment of synchronicity, inexplicably found two paperclips–which he presented to the memorial gathering–linked, in his pocket.
I pick up this singleton paperclip. It’s steel or some other silvery metal, with little grooves worked into the loops for extra gripping friction.
What meaning does one assign a paperclip–which may have been left behind by an elderly and possibly homeless woman when she left, pushing her belongings and errands out into the hot evening with a setting sun hidden by smoke and ash?
Paperclips hold pages together–paper planes which touch but do not connect. Maybe the paperclip says, “Hold together;” but hold what? There’s nothing currently in it more substantial than thought.
I rotate the paperclip in my fingers. It’s not perfectly flat. The inner loop of metal is pulled up slightly from the outer loop. At one point it held together something–a manuscript? a prescription and receipt? a photo and resume?–but holding whatever together has warped it.
I put it down next to my keyboard and stare at it as I type.
Is the shade of a great writer leaving me a paperclip as a sign of encouragement? Or, is it a reward for sitting with butt in chair and fingers on keyboard instead of slouching against a tavern table with a margarita in my hand? Or, is it a challenge–write the story this empty paperclip will have to hold together? Or, is it a message–the writer connects meanings to the actions in the text? Yeah, right. “Don’t lose the day job,” would be a more likely message, and I imagine she’d have better uses for manifesting paperclips, like leaving them for her family or people she’d known much longer than our two years’ acquaintance. Or her agent.
I write all this while staring at the paperclip. It’s getting late. Maybe tonight I’ll dream about paperclips. Maybe I’ll make a shirt that says, “My writer friend went to heaven and all I got was this paperclip.” Maybe I’ll write a fantasy story about a magician who makes a talisman of paperclips linked together into a necklace: every paperclip a star, every star a soul, every soul a story.
John Burridge writes short stories in the high fantasy, science fiction, and contemporary urban fantasy genres. His work explores familial relationships, choice, and identity. A native Oregonian, John lives with his husband, son, and two requisite cats (one fluffy and grey, the other sleek and black).
John is an alumni of the Eugene Wordos, a professional writer’s critique group. He was an active member from 2001 to 2017, and he chaired or co-chaired their meetings from 2003 onward.
His first professional sale was to Writers of the Future. Since then, he has garnered a few other sales and many, many rejection slips. You can read more about him and his publishing history at https://johnburridge.blogspot.com/p/bio-writing-credits.html.