ANOTHER "TREASURE" FOUND

It's large - 31 1/2" X 25" - written (I think) on sheepskin vellum - and old - 1821. Do you know what it is? Find out at "Vicksburg's Treasures."

ALL FICTION IS BIOGRAPHY?

Sure. Ray Bradbury visited Mars before he wrote "The Martian Chronicles," didn't he? And L. Ron Hubbard certainly visited the year 3000 before writing "Battlefield Earth." No, human imagination and creativity enable anyone to write a few lines - or even volumes - about events or circumstances they could never have possibly encountered. I am certainly no expert on matters authorial, but when I first started writing short stories I wasn't sure if I could create anything of value (either for myself or others), so, not knowing upon what subject matter to write, I did that very thing - I imagined and created. Here's an example from the little book I published several years ago about a wannabe author and a spider who has been covertly "suckin' my blood:"

...Buford placed his pointed elbows on the desk for a last look before dealing the spider his fate, and in so doing bumped the hardback Hemingway novel, which, water stained and warped and perched precariously anyway, fell to the floor. "Great balls o’ fire!" Buford screamed as he hurled himself backwards in his swivel chair, for the angry and rejuvenated spider had leaped to the rim of its glass prison and now gloated with all eight Lugosi eyes! The novelist cringed in horror as the insect sprang deliberately from jar to desk and then atop the keyboard from which so many disposable manuscripts had emerged, leered at him, and arrogantly swaggered among the keys. The aspiring author cowered, covered his eyes for a moment, then almost bolted when the spider suddenly leaped high into the air and fell booty-first upon a key. The letter "T" appeared upon the screen. The spider squinted in Buford's direction as though daring him to interfere, then again leaped into the air and pounced upon another key. The letter "R" appeared beside the "T." In rapid succession the spider pounced upon the letters "U," "C," and "E." Buford goggled in disbelief at his monitor. "Truce!" he read. Truce? The spider is calling a truce?

The spider crouched, awaiting Buford's reaction. "I ain't believin’ this," Buford said slowly. "Spiders can't type."

            "Believe it, friend." The spider rapidly tailed the letters onto the screen. "Name's Pierre. You're Buford. Buford! My god! Did your mama not like you? Or what?"

But most writers of fiction apparently use many of their past experiences - and acquaintances - as subject matter for their tales, although most will disguise their memories by cleverly altering the details. I have to admit that many of the experiences encountered (or suffered) by Jack Smith in my latest novel, "How I Found a Remedy for Innocence," were based on events of my teen years. I was there when I wrote...

             ...Josey, Archie, Jerry, and I were having a round of burgers and fries one afternoon when Josey launched into a vivid description of the fine cuisine that was served in the fancy club on Boston Bay where he and his parents often dined. Above us, a thin sheet of sunlight that had sneaked through the window blinds illuminated the anxious fluttering of a lone fly that had apparently escaped an earlier tirade by Mama Mary. We three veterans took note of the crazed insect, and of Mary's instant mutation from cook to killer, and prepared ourselves as the fly staked claim to a portion of Josey's burger. Josey had turned to a tale of his ancestors' part in the Revolution when the ear‑piercing crack of Mary's long‑distance swatter ended his soliloquy. We watched eagerly as Josey gazed in wonder between hands poised to accentuate the significance of Massachusetts's role in American history, to a scene appalling to eyes virgin to the sight of strewn entrails and inanimate eyeballs. Hands yet poised over the remains, Josiah burped so loudly that the gurgle could be heard above the now‑resumed screeches‑and‑screams. We waited. We hoped he would be sick, there and then. We wondered, too, as Josey reeled slightly in his chair, if we would be so lucky as to witness the imposition of a permanent affliction on the Yankee. We all sighed with disappointment, though, as he slowly rose and left the cafe, never again to roam amongst the fertile growth that rooted in its slithery concrete floor. Our laughter afterwards could have been heard in Milldale...

And...

              ...At the sound of another oriental drum roll Sabrina raised and spread her knees, ankles entwined, and leaned backward to rest on one palm. With an eye on the crowd, she ran her tongue along the inside of her free hand, then, fingers glistening, used it to pluck a Ping-Pong ball from the bowl. She fondled it with her lips, kissed it, licked it until it was wet, all while eyeing the eager faces before her, winning groans from collective throats, and then, daintily, with two fingers and her thumb, placed the moist white ball amidst the thick, dark hair of her pelvis. In an instant, it was gone.

            "Wow!" Jerry said. "Just slurped it right up!"

            "Get ready!" Archie gibbered wildly.

            As the drum roll swelled, Sabrina again surveyed her audience, finally squinting and nodding slightly at a fan who stood far in the rear. She seemed to draw air into her plump belly, which extended even farther as she stretched, until it appeared taut and hard. Both palms now propped her lengthening body as she inhaled and concentrated on her objective. The drum roll intensified. A tense hush came over us all. Not another sound was heard. Her eyelids fluttered. Her round belly shuddered and went flat. There was a resounding hollow "thwop!" The missile was launched!

            "She CAN aim the thing!" I cried in amazement.

The process of writing the latter book was to me stimulating and even enlightening. I think most people can similarly benefit from writing of their past accomplishments, trials, and tribulations. Not only will they probably be surprised by the substance of their work, but the interest such can generate from others will delight them. Everybody has a story to tell, and many of them, besides being labors of love, share adventures that others can enjoy.