The Fifteen Minute Novel is a novel written fifteen minutes at a time with each week day’s section starting with the sentence from the previous day. At least it is attempting to be a novel. For now I am just aiming at one continuous story, worked on for fifteen minutes each day. Started Friday January 1st, 2021 (in case you want to search for the beginning. I can’t wait to see where it ends up. It could be good, or it could be a mess. We’ll have to see. For now, here is today’s fifteen minutes.
Day 9: “Home,” James said, trying the thought out for size.
“Home,” James said, trying the thought out for size. It didn’t sit comfortably. But then his old home hadn’t sat comfortably with him either.
James leaned back against the back of the sofa. His marriage was lived out in an ultra-modern super sleek house where everything was top of the line and nothing had a chance to wear out. His wife seemed to redecorate with the seasons. He never complained because it made her happy and as he was never around he felt something needed to make her happy.
After the divorce he moved into a high rise apartment. His mother arranged for its decoration as he couldn’t take the time off work. It was a place he slept, nothing more. He knew that what was deemed suitable was being packed and sent along. He wondered how much of his furniture would be joining him in exile and if he would even notice if anything was missing. James closed his eyes and let everything wash through him. For the first time when he closed his eyes, he didn’t see the old man. This time he saw his car stopping by the side of the road, cell service impossible, tire blown and the spare nowhere to be found. He found it vaguely amusing. The car was one he hadn’t driven in years, since college actually. It was in the back of the garage.
Or series of garages, if he was being honest with himself. Once he liked tinkering with cars. He used to restore them in a time that was part of his dim dark past; a time when the family business hadn’t become his whole world. He may have driven a broken down beater, but he put the shine on too many classic cars to name. He never kept them,. Not in those days. Those days he’d work on one car, get it to pristine condition and then sell it on to someone who wanted the ownership without the work. The profit made would go to fund the next car and the cycle would repeat.
Later there was no time for tinkering, no time for reassembling and rebuilding and he became one of the buyers. He contented himself with stories about the circle of life and how he was now funding junior versions of himself and that they in turn would go on to do the same later. He bought the cars because he could, but he never drove them. He bought bigger and better garages, warehouses for his collection, but drew no real enjoyment out of them. He visited on occasion. Towards the end he got more enjoyment out of his boat. It at least provided him the opportunity to sail out beyond cell phone range and have the illusion that he was the last person on earth, at least for a few hours. He had no real connection to those cars, they were just things, not machines he worked with and poured his sweat and time into. Someone else did that for him and it made them meaningless. Once he realized this, he arranged buyers for all of them. On the day his car broke down, he arranged the sale of his last stored classic and was driving his old car to the junkyard. He tried selling it, but no one would have it. The junkyard would turn it into parts at least and he planned to take a taxi home. It somehow seemed fitting that it chose that night to break down.
Ten til Midnight 