Tag Archives: fiction




Elle me dévisage. Son regard est froid.  « T’as la frousse tout d’un coup?”

Nous pensions cambrioler la maison de ses parents et elle me demande si j’ai peur. 

« Tu as déjà fait ce genre de choses? T’es une cambrioleuse expérimentée? »

« Non, je n’ai jamais cambriolé, » dit-elle en fronçant les sourcils, « même pas mes parents, mais cela devrait être facile, je crois.  Ils ne verrouillent jamais leur porte et ils laissent les choses de valeur partout, même l’argent. »

J’ai vraiment la trouille, mais je ne peux pas l’avouer en face d’elle. Je fais semblant d’être insouciant, et je lui dis, « je suis étudiant en médecine et je n’ai peur de rien. Mais je ne veux pas être pris la main dans le sac. Est-ce qu’il n’y a pas de système d’alarme? »

« Je crois pas.  Mes parents s’attendent à de l’honnêteté de la part de tous les gens, comme ils en attendent d’eux-mêmes. Ils ne s’attendent pas à être cambriolés. Et ils ne font rien pour l’empêcher. Je voudrais leur donner une bonne leçon. »

« Ils font  souvent l’expérience des cambriolages quand même, non? Les gens ne sont pas très honnêtes en général et s’ils savent qu’une maison n’est pas verrouillée… »,

« En fait, ils n’ont jamais été cambriolés  que je sache. »

« Ça m’étonne. Jamais auparavant d’avoir été victimes des voIeurs, ils ont vraiment de la chance! »

« Si, si, ils ont été volés, mais ils ne s’en sont pas rendu compte. Moi, je leur ai souvent dérobé des choses. De la monnaie et des petites choses qu’ils ne ne remarqueraient jamais. Comme cette bague. » Et elle me montre la bague, sur une chaîne autour de son cou. Elle me la donne, comme si elle voulait que je la garde. « Ils n’ont jamais remarqué que quelque chose leur manquait. » Elle parle d’un ton décontracté comme si c’était une chose normale de voler aux parents. Puis elle dit d’une voix blanche de colère, « ils sont trop bons. Les gens comme eux, je les haïs.  Les gens bons ne me remarquent jamais… » Elle rit jaune.

Si j’avais la trouille avant, maintenant je suis vraiment pétrifié. J’ai une peur bleue. 

Je ne veux plus cambrioler la maison de ses parents, je ne veux plus rien avoir à faire avec cette jeune femme dont je connais si peu de choses.

Elle me parle tout d’un coup d’un ton changé. Elle a l’air triste, comme si elle broie du noir. C’était cette tristesse qui m’a attiré dès le début. Je pensais que je pourrais lui remonter le moral. Mais ce changement soudain me fait peur. Elle est si lunatique, son humeur tellement  changeante, que je ne comprends rien sauf qu’elle n’est pas qui je la croyais être. Je la regarde, sa tête enfouie dans les bras, l’image de quelqu’un de tourmenté.

J’y vois mon opportunité et je la prends. Je m’enfuis, c’est -à -dire que je l’abandonne,  triste ou faisant semblant de l’être,  sur le banc dans le parc. Je ne sais pas ce qu’elle va faire, si elle cambriolera ses parents ou pas. Je ne la comprends pas du tout. 

Je rentre soulagé chez moi, avec l’intention d’étudier. Je ne suis pas un cambrioleur, je ne l’ai jamais été, je ne le serai jamais. On peut dire que ce qui m’est arrivé n’était qu’un cauchemar, quelque chose comme une mauvais rêve. Peut-être. Mais je porte toujours sous mes vêtements une chaîne avec une bague autour de mon cou afin de ne jamais oublier mon échappée belle.


She stares at me. Her eyes are icy. “You’re getting cold feet?”

We were thinking about breaking into her parents’ house and she asks me if I am scared. “You’ve done this before? This sort of thing? Are you an experienced burglar?”

“No, I’ve never burglarized before,” she says, frowning, “not even my parents, but it should be easy, I think.  They never lock their doors and they leave things everywhere, even money.”

I’m really scared, but I can’t admit it in front of her. I pretend to be insouciant, and I say, “I’m a medical student and I’m not afraid of anything. But I don’t want to be caught red-handed. Isn’t  there an alarm system?”

“I don’t think so. My parents expect honesty from everyone, just as they expect it from themselves. They don’t expect people to steal from them. And they don’t do anything to stop it. I want to teach them a lesson.”

“They must often be victims of  burglaries anyway, right? People are not very honest in general, and if they know a house isn’t well locked…. “

“In fact, they have never been burglarized as far as I know.”

“I’m surprised. They’ve never been robbed before? They’re really lucky!”

“Yes, yes, they were robbed, but they were not aware of it. I myself often stole things from them. Money and little things they would never notice. Like this ring.” And she shows me the ring, which is on a chain around her neck. She hands it to me, as if she wants me to keep it. “They never noticed that they were missing a thing.” She talks in a casual tone like it’s normal to steal from one’s parents. Then, her voice goes toneless with anger, “They are good, too good. I hate people like them. Good people never notice me.”  And she gives a hollow laugh.

If I had cold feet before, now I’m really petrified. I’m scared to death. 

I don’t want to break into her parents’ house anymore, I don’t want to have anything to do with this young woman I know so little about.

Then she speaks and her tone is completely different. She looks sad, as if she’s suddenly down in the dumps. It was that sadness that attracted me from the beginning. I thought I could cheer her up, even save her. But this sudden change scares me. She’s so moody, I don’t understand anything except that she’s not who I thought she was. I look at her, her head buried in her arms, the image of someone tormented.

I see my opportunity and I take it. I run away, leaving her, sad or pretending to be, on the bench in the park. I don’t know what she’s going to do, whether she’s going to rob her parents or not. I don’t understand her at all. 

I go home relieved, intending to resume my studies. I am not a burglar, I have never been one, and I never will be. You could say that what happened to me must have been a nightmare, a really bad dream. Maybe. But under my shirt I wear her ring on a chain around my neck so I never forget how close I came to disaster.

by phoebe sparrow wagner 2022

NaNoWriMo Installment #5 We Are Hope’s Family: November Novel

Continued from yesterday:

Ah, what was Hope always saying? Life is a beach? He hadn’t quite understood her before, but now he did and it surely was. Life is a beach. But it isn’t any pure coral white beach, with sunny skies and clear azure waves. It’s just an old beach of a beach and then you die.


Prem rarely used profanity, so when he thought this word, it appeared in his mind separated out, as if in a paragraph of its own, highlighted, in bold.


What was the point in living if you were only going to die, ignominiously, and end up with your toe tagged in the morgue like any television corpse.  It hardly seemed worth it. What was he doing, why did he bother worrying about all these people in Building 22, who were just going to die and end up tagged at the toe themselves? How was it worth it, trying to hold the building together that was trying to fall apart after a hundred years of being mortared and bricked into existence? And how worth it was it anyway, just to upkeep a community of twelve individuals who many of them had rarely-to-never paid a cent into society, but only drew from it like the proverbial parasites that some, like Martin the skinhead, called them.

Martin had hardly a peg-leg to tap out that tune with, however, being something of “parasite” himself, Prem observed. But being copper had never stopped one saucepan from calling another tarnished, not in Prem’s experience. And just why hadn’t the disabled paid into society? Had any of them ever tried to get off disability? Was it their fault? Or was it the fault of a society that encouraged, even forced permanent disabled status on them, and with it concomitant poverty? Who could get out of the disability snare once caught in it? No one who had lived in Building 22 had ever, so far as Prem knew, outgrown or out-earned disability. In fact, the residents were forever finagling ways to earn just up to, but not beyond the strict earning limits placed on them, just so they could maintain disability and their subsidies and their small but stable incomes.

What a miserable trap. You could get a regular but miserably small income for life, if you agreed to be disabled by the system. But in order to get out of the trap, in order to try to earn a living and make your own way, you would in a stroke lose both the place you lived and your regular income, all for a life of insecurity and instability. And this at a time when nothing was secure or stable except the fact that there was no safety net, and no one cared about people in need except a handful of overused charities and churches. So who could blame a disabled person for deciding not to even try to work but to stay on disability and remain impoverished? Who could blame them when that meant at a minimum a roof over their heads and food on the table. It was a devil’s bargain, but Prem could see how sometimes the devil could appear a better partner than the faceless ghoul of potential homelessness and hunger.

“Earth to Prem, earth to Prem,” called Ernie while Beanie smacked her bony hands and made a resounding clap in the tiled lobby, startling Prem from continuing his thoughts.  He stared at them, realizing that of course the two women in their own persons made hash of his argument: They had both had had long working lives and deserved more rather than less of what they got out of the system. Nevertheless, it did not completely detract from his argument that two elderly women on social security were trapped in poverty just as the non-working disabled were.

“What were you thinking that took you so far away?” demanded Ernie, never one to keep questions to herself.

“I, I,–“ Prem didn’t know how to respond.

“Aha! You really were thinking something. It must have been juicy!”  Together the two ladies crowed.

Suddenly, Prem decided to take the question seriously. “Actually I was thinking about something. It wasn’t juicy, not the way you think, but it was – I don’t know how to put it. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” The two spoke at one time.

“Okay, then. Tell me when you disagree with me. First of all, this is a society of “haves” and “have-nots,” right? I mean, we have huge inequality, you can see it right here — this building, Number 22, compared to others down the street is just one example.” Prem stopped as if one of the women had spoken. But he saw at once that they were simply waiting for him to go on so he continued, “Clearly it’s no good simply to give a “have-not” everything he or she needs. That’s just what we do now, and in my opinion it leads nowhere but to misery and protracted disability.”

“What if the “have-not” isn’t disabled, but just old? What if the “have-not” works full-time but isn’t paid enough to live on? There are a lot of other ways to be a “have-not” than to be disabled.” These objections came from Beatrice Bean, whose fingers held an imaginary cigarette. She pretended to suck on it, then flick the ashes.

“You’re right. I guess I am a little obsessed with the disability issue. But let me go with just that part of it. If the “haves” somehow could help the disabled “have-nots” gain a set of skills – any set of skills — to become “haves” like themselves, wouldn’t that be better?  There are plenty of skills that can be marketed. You don’t need to go to a regular workplace these days to earn a living.”

“I really hate that word, ‘marketed’,” Ernie interjected. “Why does everything have to be for sale? Why must everything be reduced to a matter of money?”

“Because it’s a capitalistic world, that’s why. You and I may not agree with it but we’re stuck with it, and until we can live in a world without money, the have-nots need to learn how to earn.” For all the conviction in his voice, Prem was not that comfortable defending capitalism, especially knowing how avarice had despoiled the natural world he loved so much.  But he knew that capitalism had ruled for centuries, and that it wasn’t going to change in his lifetime or the lives of these two women, so it was to all intents and purposes, a fact of life.

“So you are going to teach all the disabled people in Building 22 how to get a paying job? Good luck!” said Beanie with a wry smile. “I don’t personally think anyone here is going to thank you very kindly for it.”

“But don’t you see? That’s precisely what I mean.”

“What do you mean? Why should anyone thank you? If you have an apartment, a social worker, food stamps…you have it made in the shade. Why should you want to work?”

“Because people would feel better about themselves if they could work, that’s why…” Prem said, lamely. He then realized that he had made the mistake of so many do-gooder liberals, believing he knew what was good for those he wanted to help better than they did themselves.  But how could he know how they felt without asking them? How could he know whether they felt bad about themselves now or would feel better about themselves working? He hadn’t spoken to most of the residents about the matter. In fact, it had only been Hope, the second floor resident and artist, with whom he had spoken in any depth. It was she who had been so passionately outspoken about feeling trapped in “the System.”

Even as he thought about it Prem realized that things were complicated. Yes, Hope was an artist, and he felt she should be able to sell her work and keep the income at the same time, but wasn’t she also often ill and unstable? It seemed to him that she was hospitalized for weeks at a time, and as frequently as twice a year. What would she do without disability payments when she was ill, he wondered, and how would she survive or cope even as an artist during the inevitable lean times if her disability payments were cut off? Yet she was the tenant who resisted staying on disability, even as it was clear to him that she could not afford to chance getting off it, not unless she could sell paintings regularly or for large sums of money, something that was not likely to happen. People like Hope weren’t discovered by museums or fêted by the rich and famous to be made rich and famous. No, they simply did art and made art alone, steadily, keeping the faith that it was worth it simply because art to them was like food for the rest of us.

Hope wasn’t going to quit painting or making her sculptures just because no one “discovered” her. Hope did art because she had to do art or die. Period. If it sold, well then, good. But so far as Prem knew, Hope had never tried to advertise or sell in the manifold ways that “working artists” sold their art: by marketing themselves and their art in such a way that people come looking to buy. It wasn’t that she would not sell. Prem thought she might be very happy if someone wanted to buy a piece of her artwork. It was simply that she had other things on her mind than making art in order to suit the purchasing public. And what about the others in Building 22 – were they so very different? What did he know? Did he know enough to draw any conclusions at all?

“It’s just such a vicious cycle,” he said, as if finishing a thought he had started aloud.

Beanie seemed to have followed him. “Yah, I agree. But some of these folks have two or three strikes against them before they started out in life. Can you blame them for seeing a tiny fixed income for life better than the insecurity of not knowing whether you can earn anything at all?”

Ernestine Baker seemed to disagree. She counted off on her fingers, as if reciting a litany, “Darryl, Kashina, Bryony, Giorgio, Feder…and that strange woman, Hope. What cases. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes for a second. I can’t imagine being one of them for a day, not even if you paid me. Talk about unfulfilled lives and unrealized potential!”

“But what are you saying?” remonstrated Prem. “That their lives are wasted? And if they are wasted, whose fault is that? Why have the disabled been allowed not to do something with their lives? That’s my entire point. Look at Giorgio. He was a talented auto mechanic. He wasn’t in the system all his life. He has skills. He just can’t use those skills right now. Feder has savant expertise that surely could be used somewhere productively. Bryony already works three days a week, and Kashinda is so young that it would indeed be a terrible waste if she never learned to do something with her life, except smoke pot. We created a real monster with Federal disability benefits: the same limitations that promote permanent poverty promote never getting better.” Prem could feel himself getting passionate, and wondered just where that came from. Why did he care so much? Why he sounded almost hysterical…

“Okay, what’s going on, Prem?” asked Beanie, peering at him with more than a little concern. “Why don’t you draw up a chair, sit down with us, take a load off…”

Baker, abashed, chimed in, “You want a drink, Prem? The beer is on me.”

His face warm, Prem had felt a sudden but urgent need to be gone. To be anywhere but here. Ashamed of himself, he apologized to the two older women and literally backed away even he spoke, forgetting entirely why he had returned to Building 22 at such an hour in the first place. By the time he remembered the water pressure situation that had occurred just that morning, he was halfway down the block with an old cassette tape playing Dave Mallett’s “Pennsylvania Sunrise,” a song that always made him yearn to hop a train and go places, never to return.

Pennsylvania sunrise…ten degrees at best.

Peerin’ from the window of a club car heading west.

After mornin’ glory…money for the miles.

Someone said I’ll do this for a while.




I promise more action in the segments I will share in upcoming days. I won’t share the entire novel but I will share some parts of it, enough to entice. I now have c 120 pp.  double spaced 37000wds.

Memory is Fiction and Fiction, Memory

Where is Memory?

Memory is fiction. I  wrote that in 2005, believing I read it in the New Yorker somewhere. Memory is fiction. It’s not that we make our memories out of whole cloth; we believe we remember things clearly, but the mind is a funny thing and what we recall happened, and what “really” did are two different things. Of course, in the end, there is little way of knowing what is correct, unless the event was a public one and well-documented. Unless? Hah. Just think of one of the most public and most highly documented events of the 20th century, the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy and try to come to some conclusion from the “evidence, the facts, about what “really” happened. The truth is, no one can tell you what really happened  because everyone’s memory is different, and in that sense even though the objective evidence supposedly remains the same, each witness interprets it differently, through a different viewpoint and a different political and sociological lens. So where lie the facts of “true memory” and where is the bosh of “mere fiction” in that public event, those historically documented facts? Answer that and I am certain there must be a big prize out there somewhere for you.

But I suspect the truth is that this notion of “really happened”  is just a big brainwash by those in power who have cornered the market on their own version of it. In truth (and these words all get so sticky here), if I believe something happened one way, and this belief has informed my life and behavior, isn’t that the most important thing about the event, more important than any theoretical “facts” of the matter? Given than no agreement has been reached about something so public that it ought to be obvious, Who killed President Kennedy? how can anyone tell me that an XYZ in my own little life that I remember clearly, happened rather in the fashion that they recall and not as I do? What gives their memories more weight than my own?

You can indeed turn it around and say Fiction is memory, and be just as correct, meaning that in all the stories we make up about the world reside parts of ourselves and our lives, that nothing is ever truly “made up” or completely foreign to our experience, however outlandish the characters or strange the events described . There is a truth behind the settings and deeds that derives from one’s center, making fiction a personal memory of the deepest sort.

People have asked how I could recall with such clarity events that happened 20, 30 or 40 years ago, even down to dialogue, the way I’ve written it in DIVIDED MINDS or prospectively in BLACKLIGHT, and all I can say is — aside from the fact that out of 40 years I remember very little all told, even though what I do recall, I recall with great vividness — that I feel I remember every event I recount as clearly as if it happened yesterday. There is no guarantee, mind you, if indeed memory is fiction, that I recall anything with factual accuracy, whatever that is! I can only claim to capture what memory remains of those years, to capture my memories, no matter how time has embellished or hardened them, or in fact hardened the embellishments.

As to DIVIDED MINDS, I remembered a great deal more than what I wrote, until the book project was finished, at which point I pretty much lost it all. Once it set the years down as “my story” I feel as if I mentally deleted all other remembered events as less important, therefore forgettable…I wish this hadn’t happened as there was much I used to and wished to recall. Perhaps I have earlier versions of my book without such deletions, on my hard drive to jog my memory, but it is as Annie Dillard, author of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek wrote, (I paraphrase) If you prize your memories, don’t write them down (because that solidifies them forever in a form that freezes out all others).

Nevertheless, not a word I have written either in DIVIDED MINDS or in BLACKLIGHT has been deliberately fictionalized. I remember each and everything that I have written about, though whether my memory be factually accurate or not is anyone’s guess.


As an aside, I know all too well how false memories may be unconsciously confabulated. When I lived at the Transitional Living Facility in Hartford in the 90s, the staff there and at the nearby hospitals were so intent on ferreting out “multiples,” the newest fad diagnosis, short for persons with Multiple Personality Disorder, that I am absolutely convinced they induced many if not most of the residents there to “remember” early childhood sexual traumas, incidents which they might never have “remembered” and which likely never happened. For instance, my friend Joe latched onto the “fact” that his father “molested” him — but the only evidence he ever gave for that was that he put his hand on his knee once while driving…Now, I never bought it, since it seemed a fatherly thing to do, a father putting his hand on the knee of a young boy! And Joe never once said that anything else ever happened between them. In fact, he always said that his father was a womanizer, if anything. Be that as it may, the residents were made to confabulate these false memories and this was a necessary prerequisite for the psychologists there to proceed to “uncover” the desired dissociative disorders, i.e. closet multiple personalities. I am telling you, it was a huge fad, and MPDs were coming out of the woodworks. I am convinced that many so-called multiples today, most of them, are residual from that terrible decade of the 90s, and they have not been able to let go of that diagnosis. Furthermore, no one, no doctor or therapist has been brave enough to deal with the lie that they were induced, even forced to buy into, and so the “fiction” is being perpetuated and their lives and no doubt others connected to them destroyed.


Forgive that tangent, but it is one aspect of memory — induced false memory — that does upset me, because it has destroyed so many lives, continues to, and no one is held accountable.


Nevertheless, for most and in most lives, those not deliberately ruined by multiple-personality-mad psychiatrists and/or overzealous psychologists, the “facts” whatever they may be don’t matter as much as  one’s memories, as I’ve pointed out. Certainly for me, I’ve lived my life through my memories, and the memories have been what has influenced me, affected me, changed me and made me into the person I am today, for good or ill.


I have some other thoughts on this, but it is getting very late so I must quit for now and go to bed…TTFN (ta ta for now).