No, I didn't name my son Jason Jr. This is a vanity post, make no mistake, but not quite in the same way. I thought I'd mix it up and talk a little bit about my life and how I think. By that last clause, some of you are surely ready to jump in with a smarmy comment. I invite you to. Most readers of The Farthest Reaches are astute, capable and filled with wit. And you should take every chance you can to rib me.
I wish I could say the same about my own level of capability and wit. You see, dear friends, my biggest challenge as a writer and a person is that I have a terrible memory. I can swear to myself, my family, my colleagues that I have finished or tended to something, perhaps some major task, perhaps some minor one. Then, days, weeks, months will go by and I will discover that I left it hanging. I don't mean to do it. I honestly don't. But, hey, the road down below was paved with J. McIntyre's best intentions.
Yes, yes, I've lived on the west coast, Vancouver Island even, where rain is a fair constant. But still, in my childhood and adulthood I've never owned an umbrella. Even my three-year old had a Batman number which cupped his little head and shoulders perfectly at the age of two and a half. Me? Never. Never had an umbrella. Must have thought I was too cool for one.
So, one day, wet and frigid, I hiked back down the wet concrete trail to my parked car, popped the trunk to put in some items and, Lo!, there hearken a small black fabric pod with a tag still on it! An umbrella. And in that instant I remembered late last summer, plunking down a dollar at the drug store for one on clearance. A brilliant idea. Wish I'd thought of it. Oh wait, in retrospect I had. I had just forgotten my brilliance.
Same thing happened just yesterday. Spring's rain made way for a sweltering summer out in my neck of the country. I've only owned two pairs of shorts in my adult life and, remembering this after a back-breaking day of labour in the sunshine, I needed a fresh pair -- one that didn't reek of sawdust, dirt and, frankly, my own sweat.
As I entered the bedroom to check the closet, I hoped the *other* pair was clean. It wasn't.
But there were four brand new pairs of shorts, some dressy, some casual, with the store tags till attached, neatly folded at the top of the closet. Whoah! This was getting weird, I thought. Then I vaguely started recalling how I had bought these shorts to supplement my two-pair ration. Again, it occurred late last fall and I found these articles on clearance for anywhere from one dollar to ten. A bargain.
And a smart one at that. Looks like someone (maybe even me) was looking out for "Future Jason." I can't wait to see what else "Past Jason" has done for me. The anticipation is exciting.
So, writer friends, let's have a little fun! Write a flash fiction tale inspired by the above post and nail it to the comment space below. The premise? A forgetful character starts discovering actions made in his favour at some point in the past. The only catch? He honestly can't remember doing them himself. Funny, sad, poignant or horrific, have fun with it. No character limit, but maybe anywhere from 200 up to a couple thousand. You're the boss of the story. Er. Well, the story's more likely the boss of you, but don't feel limited.
The prize? Nothing too grand: A free e-copy of any story (ies) in my catalogue you might be curious to check out. Plus, and more importantly, I'll make a special individual mention of everyone who posts a story here. I'll do so on Twitter, even if you don't have a Twitter account. The world shall know your awesomeness.
@Lesism, @edenbaylee -- no pressure, but I bet you each can come up with something grand here!