For one person

For One Person


         Archibald woke up, grabbed the nearest piece of paper and a pen and wrote furiously. With furrowed brows and a crushing grip he wrote down anything that came to mind. Whole paragraphs, sentence fragments, even just single words all went from his mind to the paper as quickly as his hands could transcribe them. Once he was finished, Archibald let out a contented sigh, and then as if the wild urge to write had never griped him, calmly washed his face, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair like any other person might do upon waking up. This was Archibald's daily routine. His half dreaming steam of conscious rambling rarely made much sense, but he always managed to get something out of it. After dressing himself in a nice suit of clothes, Archibald always liked to be well dressed, he would sit at his desk and go over the things he had written, pull out what he deemed to be useful, then place the paper in his cabinet for possible future reference. After that the real work would start. Sometimes it was easy. He would sit at his desk and write page after page, letting the words flow from his pen. He would write like Capablanca played chess, he'd only pick one word, but it was always the right one. Other times it was not easy. He would pace back and forth across his room, agonizing over each choice of word, writing and rewriting a single phrase until the perfect one was discovered. Sometimes it was very very hard. At those times he would sit in his chair and stare at the paper, elbows on the desk top, hands griping his hair as if he were trying to pull the words out of his brain. Those were the worst times. At those times there was only one thing that Archibald could do. He'd focus on his reason for writing. Certainly it wasn't something he had to do. No there were other ventures he could easily pursue, but he had something that kept him going through the hard times. Kept him working until the light of inspiration shined on him again.

         The first thing Cynthia would do after waking up was run to her desk. The desk, while well made, was rather unremarkable, it was what was on the desk that brought her running. Cynthia was not a woman of great passion. In fact one could say, with little fear of being wrong, that in her whole life Cynthia only had one love. One great love to be sure, but only one none the less. It was no man, or woman for that matter, the held Cynthia's heart. Hers was a plain and simple obsession. Cynthia loved books. Or more precisely, reading books. Sometimes she would find on her desk a hand written manuscript in fine, nearly perfect print. The only thing better than the precise hand writing, was the wonderful prose. On the days she received these mysterious manuscripts she would set out paper of her own, then spend the day reading. As she read she would write out her comments in her flowing left handed script. What she liked, what she disliked (which was little), suggestions, and corrections, all this she would write out on separate sheets of paper, not daring to mark the ones she'd received. Oh but sometimes the stories would take her to such heights, or drag her so low that she would forget entirely to comment at all and instead would be completely absorbed into the fictional world.


         One day shortly after Archibald sat down to write, there was a quick, but quiet knock on the door. Archibald had a feeling that this would be a difficult writing day, so he was, in his heart, somewhat thankful for the interruption. When Archibald answered he was greeted by a portly, balding gentleman with a light blue shirt, red tie, and white coat. He said nothing at first, only stood with an expectant look and waited.
         “Doctor Johanson. It's is nice to see you,” Archibald said recognizing the older man.
         “Ah, Archibald. How are you today?” The doctor asked.
         “I am well,” said Archibald, “What can I do for you?”
         “I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Dr. Johanson said as he gestured to his right where a young man stood with a pleasant smile on his face. “This is Mr. Patterson. He is a graduate student at the university I teach at. I told him about you and he wanted to meet you.”
         Archibald nodded politely and smiled. “Please come in.” The two entered the room, and since Archibald only had the one chair, they had a seat on his well made bed.
         “So Mr. Patterson, you are a fan of the literary arts?” Archibald asked.
         “Hm?... oh, yes,” Mr. Patterson replied, “I've always been fascinated by the creative process. Dr. Johanson tells me you write down the first thing that pops into your head after to wake up, and use that for inspiration.”
         “More for ideas than inspiration really,” Archibald replied, “I just finished going over some ideas now. Nothing much of use today.”
         “Is there a reason you only write down ideas after you wake up?” Mr. Patterson asked.
         “It takes a fresh mind to make fresh ideas.”
         “I see.”
         They spent several minuets talking. Mr. Patterson asked Archibald questions about his past, about his writing, about his plans for the future. Archibald answered them all calmly and without question.
         “I hear you have an unusual method of prof reading,” Mr. Patterson said. Dr. Johanson shot him a sidelong glance, but said nothing.
         “I suppose,” Archibald said slowly.
         “Can you tell me about it?” Mr. Patterson pressed.
         “There is not much to tell. I leave my manuscripts on the desk. The reader picks them up and returns them later, along with her comments.”
         “It is a woman?”
         “I assume so from the hand writing.”
         “Do you know this person?” Mr. Patterson asked.
         “Well we should be going,” Dr. Johanson said quickly as he stood up.
         “Can I ask one more thing?” Dr. Johanson gave him a waring look, “Why do you write Archibald?”
         “Because I have someone that likes to read my stories,” He replied without hesitation.
         “It was nice meeting you Archibald,” Mr. Patterson said as they shook hands.
         “Likewise.”
         After that the two left and Archibald sat down to continue his writing.


         Cynthia was absorb in an epic tale of love and heroism. She'd read it before, and knew what was going to happen, but that didn't matter. When she didn't have new stories to read, the old ones still thrilled her. She was disturbed from her reading when there was a knock at her door. When Cynthia answered she was greeted by a portly, balding gentleman with a light blue shirt, red tie, and white coat. He said nothing at first, only stood with an expectant look and waited.
         “Why hello Doctor Johanson,” She said.
         “Ah Cynthia, how are you today?”
         “I'm fine, I was just reading...”
         “Oh I'm sorry to disturb you,” Dr. Johanson said.
         “It's ok. Please come in,” She opened the door and Dr. Johanson and the young man with him entered.
         “Cynthia, I'd like you to meet Mr. Patterson. He is a graduate student at the university I teach at. I told him about you and he wanted to meet you.”
         “M...me Why?” she asked.
         “I heard about the stories you work on, and I wanted to talk to you about them,” Mr. Patterson said.
         “Oh.” Cynthia looked down at the floor and wrung her hands. She was worried that they might take her stories from her.
         “Don't worry Cynthia,” Dr. Johanson said placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “We just want to talk.”
         “Ok, please, have a seat.” Since she only had one chair she gestured for them to sit down on the bed.
         “Dr. Johanson tells me you prof read stories.”
         “Yes,” Cynthia replied, “I try to help out as best I can.”
         “Do you have any training, for that sort of work?” Mr. Patterson asked.
         “N...no, but I've always read a lot, ever since I was little. I love stories. Especially these stories.”
         “What do you like about them?”
         Cynthia didn't know where to begin. She could have went on and on, she could have talked for a year if they let her. But she didn't want to take up too much of their time. So with the same consideration and efficiency that typified her prof reading she simply said, “I feel like they were written just for me.” and then she smiled, her first real smile since the two guests had entered her room. “I guess that sounds silly.”
         “Not silly at all,” Dr. Johanson said.
         They spent several minuets talking. Mr. Patterson asked Cynthia questions about her past, about the stories she read, about her plans for the future. Cynthia answered them all shyly, and quietly.          
         “Do you know the person that writes those stories?” Mr. Patterson finally asked.
         “Mr. Archibald?” Cynthia smiled at the name, “No I've never met him.”
         “Would you like to?”
         “Mr. Patterson!” Dr. Johanson exclaimed.
         “A purely hypothetical question of course,” Mr. Patterson said.
         “I'm sorry Cynthia we must be going now. Come along Mr. Patterson.”
         “It was nice meeting you Cynthia,” Mr. Patterson said as they left the room.
         “Nice meeting you too.”
         Once they were gone she went back to her reading.


         “What was that about?” Dr. Johanson asked the younger man as they walked down the hall. “I thought I told you to be careful about what you say.”
         “I'm sorry Doctor. I didn't think it would cause any problems,” Mr. Patterson said. “Their mannerisms are quite different. I was surprised.”
         “That's common in these cases.”
         “I'm mostly surprised that they don't know each other though.”
         “Why is that?” The doctor asked as they neared his office.
         “I would think it would help facilitate a cure.”
         “A cure?” Dr. Johanson asked. “What are you talking about?”
         “Well you can't mean to let them stay as they are?”
         “And why not?”
         “Well it's hardly normal.”
         Dr. Johanson smiled as he looked at his promising student. “Mr. Patterson you are a young man. I can understand you desire to 'cure' everyone, top 'fix' everything. But what makes you think everything needs fixing?”
         “But...”
         “Let me ask you this; did Archibald seem like a happy man to you?”
         “It did seem so yes.”
         “And did Cynthia seem like a happy woman to you?”
         “A bit timid, but yes I'd say she seemed happy.”
         “Then why, when they are perfectly happy the way things are, do they need to know that they are the same person?”