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Shorts
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| The collector | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| 02 March 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||
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I read a Neil Gaiman interview, where he talked about writing as the only way he could stop stories from bouncing around his head for ever. And it touched a chord with me. I have had little stories and fantasies filling my imagination, sometimes for years. I write them down, and there they are, gone. Another idea arrived. Honestly, what was he expected to do with all these new ideas? Some days they would all come rushing at once. Other times he could go days without seeing one. This idea fluttered into the room he used as his office through the open window. He was busy. He really had to study the latest version of the software. Next week he would have to give a presentation on it. The idea fluttered around the light shade. How stupid was that? The light wasn’t even switched on. It was distracting him. Bloody ideas! He had just got to the important bit about the new admin utilities within the software when the idea fluttered onto the desk in front of him, demanding attention. He sighed. It was not going to go away until he had dealt with it. He put aside his manual and looked hard at the idea. It was ordinary. No spectacular impact, no original design. It was quite ordinary, in fact. Very similar to a million other ideas he had seen. It moved across the desk, turning this way and that. It was an OK idea, as far as it went. Not bad for a beginner, maybe. But really… Then the idea turned, and he saw the quite spectacular twist in its tail. Now, that was unusual. He reached up to the shelf and opened the large scrap book. There, neatly pressed, dried and pinned to the pages, was his collection. One day he would have to sort through it and categorize all the ideas here. At present, all he did was preserve them in the order that they arrived. That wouldn’t do. They should be arranged in some official order. By category, perhaps, or in order of commercial viability. Next he took down the net and the jar. Carefully, so as not to scare it away (a common fault he had in his early days) he brought the net closer and closer. Then in one swift movement he had it netted. He held it flat on the desk, the netting holding the fragile wings spread. Under the magnifying glass he examined it, the lines, the colour, the flow of the patterns. Yes, a remarkable tail, totally out of character from its body. A twist you wouldn’t really expect. He carefully emptied the net into the large glass jar, dropped the impregnated clump of cotton wool in with it and tightly screwed the lid shut. Afterwards, when it was quite still, he took it out again and painstakingly pinned it to the page. As often was the case, its wings seemed a little less vibrant, the colours a little greyer, now it was on the page rather than flitting around the room. But what could he do? If he didn’t pin them there the little buggers would fly around his head for ever. He sighed again, and turned back to the manual.
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