Second Annual Wild Violet Writing Contest Winners (2004)
Fiction
— First Place
Subventionary
Footnotes
By Nora Fores
(continued)
No sense is sometimes all sense. And good sense can be nonsense. So
what sense is there for sense anyway?
"I've never read it, but I guess I should now. It sounds interesting."
"Do you like the university?"
"Not always. I don't think it was the right school for me, maybe. I mean, I don't really like football."
"Yeah, they are big on football here... even the English students. We were supposed to write a paper on Anna Karenina for a Russian Lit. class. I was the only student who got the paper done on time. Everyone else was at a game."
The sun set slowly, not wanting to miss a moment of this strange encounter. It really is rare to see honesty like this anymore, the sun thought. It must be quite interesting for the moon to see all the best and worst activities of human nature.
"But, still I like the day better. I'm always frightened at night," Beth said, watching the last beams of orange sink into the horizon.
"Why?"
"I don't like the sightlessness or the intensity of the sound at night. I like things to blend together."
"What about people? Can they blend together?"
"Oh, yes, I'm sure they can," she answered quickly. "I'm sure they can."
"How so?"
"Well, perhaps I begin talking..."
"... about my childhood? It was too short really. I have six younger sisters, and I had..."
"... to conquer my fear of swimming. So, one day I just jumped right in. I was flapping around, completely scared..."
"... that for the first time, I was making the wrong decision about something important. So, I told her that I cared about her, but that I couldn't sleep with her just because everyone else was..."
"... torturing me throughout school. I was a pretty chunky kid, and it just got worse as I got older. Then, toward the end of junior year, I just got sick of it, went on a diet, lost all this weight. It's funny because I still feel that there's a great, big hole which can't be filled..."
"... with anything but the deepest love for another human being who sees me the way I see them. And, I get to thinking that all I really want..."
"... is to be loved." "... is to be loved."
But love itself is not enough here. Along with this love, a person must be treated with respect and granted freedom to make decisions independently. Nora does not leave because she no longer loves her husband or child but rather because staying with them means not loving herself.
"I believe in perfect equality... even in the most difficult condition. We're all born for some reason. I'd hate to think that mine is to live for someone else," Beth added as the streetlights, pouring through a line of trees, cast leaf-patterned shadows on to her face.
"What else do you believe?"
"I believe...I've made a friend today."
"That's not a belief. That's a truth."
Truth is just imagination's way of creating the perfect fantasy. If we are not dreaming, then what are we really doing?
Beth's door was locked, and she fumbled with her bag, looking for the key. The young man stood by her, leaning against the porch railing. He didn't seem lost anymore, maybe just quiet. He thought, Life can be so full of hope if you're willing to look for it. It is in all of the smallest things — the sound of the first bird chirping in spring, the feel of a cat's fur against a cheek, the impression that someone else's thoughts make.
"You'll go back to the book store?" he asked as she opened the door.
"Of course, and I'll see you there."
"You will. Well, have a good night."
"You, too. Oh, wait what's your name?"
"David. It's David."
"I'm Beth."
Beth closed the door behind her but ran over to the window to watch David walk down the street. He strolled away lightly, looking back once. It would take him about twenty minutes to walk home from here. He didn't mind the walk. He thought of new footnotes, how much he still had to write. He should begin with Don Quixote tonight, he thought.
The great Don Quixote, who slays the mighty windmills and challenges innocent wanderers, is not so much delusional as he is without illusion. For romance and love produce the wildest actions, and without these, we would not be human.
Thereby,
Dulcinea crowned fell to sleep with Mrs. Dalloway under her pillow
as her knight wrote subventionary footnotes in small margins, feeling
that he finally was.
