Elad Haber
An Unfinished Sentence
When the author signed my copy of her latest book, I fell inside the ink as if caught in a flood. The water was black and it tasted metallic as it sloshed into my mouth.
“Help!” I shouted as I flailed. “I can’t swim!”
“Really?”
You were sitting cross-legged on a buoy. Brown leather knee-high boots (half-submerged), a frilly skirt, and a crop-top, hot pink, the glowing end of a vape dangling between two manicured fingers. Black lipstick and black eyeshadow two shades darker. With your free hand, you pinched your librarian glasses and gave me a motherly look as if to say, Please explain your foolishness.
I calmed down, stood up in the now-ankle deep water, still black and inky. “Okay, not really. It’s just something people say.”
You scoffed and removed your glasses to yawn. “That’s a cliché. I abhor cliché.”
“Right, right,” I said agreeably. “How about this?”
I reached up and grabbed at your wrist and suddenly we were submerged in the black water and descending. From far away, the sound of a distant train. That chugging, churning, engine so loud. Then, so close. It approached from below us. A submarine in the darkness. It wasn’t a modern train, but an old one, steam-engined, with one of those big chimney-style tubes in the front. From the mouth of the tube, huge bubbles floated lazily.
I let go of your hand as my lungs started to burn. You dropped your vape, anger lines appearing on your face. Then we got caught in one of the bubbles and I could breathe.
“Better,” you said and sipped at the vape. “But what are you trying to say with all of this?” You motioned with your hands at the black water, the train, the bubbles.
We floated like astronauts, in silence, for a moment.
I gulped. “I’m a writer.”
You sighed. “Obviously.”
~
I’m a graphic designer, too. I’ll show you my office. Bubbles swirled around us.
You switched from your goth-punk outfit to business casual: grey slacks, a bit of flare at the bottom, and a too-tight teal cardigan.
I fast-forwarded my office to the future so instead of off-white cubicles and boring dual monitors, we passed rows of glass enclosures with projection monitors or designers wearing VR headsets that look like sunglasses.
The edges of your mouth tilted towards a smile.
Emboldened, I sat down at my workstation, you hovered behind. My monitor was huge and curved. On the screen, flyouts and scrolling tickers with news feeds and social media highlights. In the center, on a harsh white background, an unfinished sentence mid-way through a metaphor, the pulsing cursor like a beating heart.
You cleared your throat. “There’s a lot going on.”
“Right.” I waved my hand and all the clutter disappeared. The white page looked even more menacing.
“So,” you said into the sudden silence, “what’s the story about?”
“It’s about a girl,” I said, “estranged from her family. She moves to the city and then runs into her brother in a coffee shop.”
“Okay. Then what happens?”
I made some non-committable noises.
“You don’t know?”
I looked down at my hands, scared to touch the keyboard.
“It’s okay,” you said. You stand up a little straighter. “Let’s figure it out.”
You looked down at your right hand as if it was new. You made a quick clicking sound and then snapped your fingers-
~
And then we were in a coffee shop.
They had one of those oldtimey bells that jingle when the door opens, giving the whole place a kind of quaint charm, despite the bustling city outside.
I spotted you right away. Hunched over a laptop. Plaid shirt, ball cap, fake beard. Your face was partially covered, but you seemed to be grinning, enjoying the subterfuge. You were typing fast with the confident click-click-click of a wordsmith.
Eye contact and we both froze. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Me, with nothing in my hands yet, feeling unprepared.
I sat down in the empty seat across from you and you dropped the laptop lid.
“Hi,” I said
“Hey,” you replied. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Your tone was serious but you flashed me a little wink, like, that was good right?
“How are Mom and Dad?”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
You broke your guise for another moment to shoot me a glance, like, come on, the reader is getting bored.
I poured molten steel into my voice. “I didn’t deserve the way you treated me. I’m your sister, not some stranger.”
You nodded, then remembered your role to grit your teeth at me. “You broke our heart.”
My voice rose in anger. “Because I didn’t want to marry that asshole?”
People were staring over their coffee-cups. Author-you, not fake-brother you, was smiling, urging me to go on.
I was stammering, a little, but gaining confidence with every other word. “Just because he was your best friend and Mom’s godson doesn’t mean that we had to be together like some kind of royal engagement. I’m not a fucking princess!”
Then I stood up, coffee-less, and barged out the door. A moment later, that bell again. I turned around and then…
And then…
~
“And then what?” you almost-shouted.
We’re back in my future office. The sound of whispered voices and boiling water.
“I don’t know!” I swiped at the air around the page and various screens appeared. Snippets of dialogue, descriptions, flashbacks, alternate endings, an endless cascade of possibility.
You shoo-ed away the flyouts like they were buzzing flies.
“No!” you admonished with genuine anger. “You can’t copy and paste conflict!” You stabbed at my heart. “Figure out what happens next in here. Otherwise, I can’t help you.”
~
With that dismissal, the illusion disappeared. The futuristic office, the oldtimey coffeeshop.
We were back at the bookstore. You finished signing your name with a flourish and said, “Thank you for coming.”
And I didn’t know what else to say.
Elad Haber is a husband, father to an adorable little girl, and IT guy by day, fiction writer by night. He has recent publications from the Simultaneous Times Podcast, Silly Goose Press, and Bulb Culture Collective. His debut short story collection, The World Outside was published by Underland Press in July 2024. Visit eladhaber.com for links and news.
