My Greatest Fear

What Keeps You Up At Night?

I attend a local writer’s group meeting each week, in which we discuss writing projects we’re working on, the solitary plight of those of us who have been chosen by our craft, and literally anything else we’re feeling. For a writer, these meetings are inspiring, enriching, and more than a touch cathartic. We are a recalcitrant lot, and we like it that way.

One thing we try to make time for each week is to write a flash story on the spot, inspired by a photo, a question, or some other prompt. The topic for a recent flash was to describe our deepest, darkest fear. I chose to express it with a story I have titled “The Mirror”:

His index finger tapped the shot glass as I walked toward the chair beside the old man. The bartender understood the message, got up from his stool, and wordlessly poured a couple fingers of 12-year-old Flor de Caña into the glass. On the beach beside this wall-less bar, the irritated tide was pounding the sand with turbid waves stained brown by runoff from the estuary. Tropical rains were dumping endless amounts of water, meaning the shallow river would carry still more mud out to sea. The dusty old television was showing a replay of some fütbol game from somewhere, but no one was watching. The old man’s icy blue stare was focused on some point and time not discernible to me. I know that because I was watching his face in the mirrored wall of the back bar. On a rainy November day, the old man was the only one in the bar and it was likely to stay that way.

“Tomo el mismo,” I said to the bartender and he poured another shot of rum as I sat down. The old man’s gaze to nowhere didn’t waver. “My name’s Gary,” I said to him, trying to strike up a conversation. I held out my hand in an offer to shake, but the old man didn’t move. “What’s yours?”

“Don’t matter,” he said as he raised his glass to take a sip. I held my glass up and said, “Salud.” Ignoring my attempt to toast our acquaintance, he sipped the warmth of the rum and set his glass down. That gaze to nowhere never changed. Realizing that conversation would not be a part of this encounter, I sat in silence for half an hour. The bartender refilled our glasses a few times.

“So, what’s the deal old man?” I finally said, prompting him about as hard as I could.

“I was a writer all my life,” he said. “But I have written my last word. There’s nothing more in me.”

I dropped money on the bar to cover the tab for both of us and began to walk out. I turned to have one last look at the sullen old man, and the only thing there was my own reflection in the mirror.