The Confabulator Cafe

Author: kwohler

  • Control

    I finally found the exit.

    The facility was a labyrinth, a seemingly unending collection of locked doors and twisting corridors. It had been much more difficult to find the reception area than I expected. But then, when I came in, someone from the drug trial had given me the grand tour. I didn’t know I’d have to find my own way out. Alone. In the dark.

    The red EXIT sign above the door was the only light in the room. The power in the building was off, and it had been for … hours, days? It was difficult to tell.

    #

    When I had awakened, the power was out. Without air-conditioning, my room was sweltering hot. I came to on the floor. My bed, dresser, and nightstand were stacked against the door.

    I moved the furniture and pulled the handle of the door. Locked from the outside. But if someone locked me in here, why had I tried to prevent anyone from getting in? I gave up and tried the windows. But, of course, they were barred.

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  • Stone Gods in the Heart of the City

    Winifred met me at the door, though I had arrived a full fifteen minutes early. She was clearly eager to begin, her enthusiasm for this evening’s adventure in antithesis of my trepidation. As planned, she had divorced herself of her dress and bustle, wearing instead her riding jodhpurs and one of her father’s coats. With her hair tucked beneath a wool cap, she looked a bit like her younger brother, Thomas.

    “What took you so long?” Her hushed tones made it clear she didn’t want anyone inside to hear.

    “We said we’d meet at 7:00. It’s barely a quarter ‘til.”

    “Keep your voice down. I don’t want my father to know I’m going out.”

    “You’re perfectly capable of making up your own mind.” Winifred’s mind was capable of a great many things. It was the thing that most attracted me to her, and she was a woman with many attractive qualities.

    She pushed me out of the doorway and closed the door silently behind her with the delicate grace of a pickpocket. Grabbing my arm, she led me down the stone steps to the darkened street.

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  • The Monologue

    I’m Doctor Samuel Tan. You probably recognize me from my numerous interviews, my now-defunct talk show on that awful cable channel, not to mention my picture on the cover of Omni Science magazine’s “10 Scientists to Watch in the New Millennium” issue back in 1999.

    I dropped off the public’s radar for a few years, because I’ve been working on a special project.

    What I’m doing is intended to bring peace. That’s all I ever wanted—all any of us ever wanted. Building a utopia isn’t easy, not even for me.

    As a child, my IQ had been measured beyond genius level—the largest ever recorded. With proper schools and training, my brilliance grew. I graduated with several doctorates, in a variety of sciences, and moved into research.

    Fate had given me the mental acuity to solve some of the universe’s most challenging problems, and I met each one head on. I won grants and awards. I felt as if nothing was beyond my grasp. Along the way, I invented a quantum constructor that revolutionized industry by building machines from the atom up. Soon, I had the money and the resources to do anything.

    I wanted to do something big. I needed a challenge. Idle hands, as they say.

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  • The Midnight Star

    Unlikeable. It was the same word in every rejection from a woman, on each evaluation at work, at the bottom of all my report cards in school. No matter how well I performed, my social skills were—in a word—non-existent.

    God knows I tried. I read self-help books. I attended seminars. I even found a woman in New England who still taught an old-fashioned charm school, aimed at instilling budding young debutants with the social graces. And yet, though I understood how to be likable, my mind could never grasp why.

    It seemed an unnecessary show—something one did to garner the approval of others. I never needed external validation. I didn’t see the need to placate those precious flowers whose feelings were hurt because I refused to coddle them. Why couldn’t they just accept facts as facts?

    “Yes, Mrs. Robinson, your car is a complete piece of shit has had some engine trouble. In the past six years, you never changed the oil on time your car has had a lot of miles on it. It’s your fault. These things happen. Now you’re going to pay through the nose. We’ll see what we can do.”

    I guess that’s why I like cars. They don’t get pissed when you bleed the lines. They don’t hold a grudge when you pound out a dent in the fender. They don’t take it personal when you give up on fixing them and send them to the junkyard.

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  • Listening for Gold

    Moleskine
    My old Moleskine notebook. I still carry it around in my backpack in case inspiration strikes.

    Trying to write as a dozen conversations circle around me is maddening at times. Other times it’s pure gold.

    I’m one of those people who prefers to write in complete silence or maybe with some quiet music (sans lyrics), but the pressures of my day job don’t afford me that opportunity very often. Instead, I find myself putting words on a page as the room roars with impromptu meetings, phone conversations, and smack-talk over an occasional game of foosball.

    But let’s be honest, listening is what writers are supposed to be doing. If we’re not listening to the world around us, we’re robbing ourselves — and our writing — of one-fifth of our sensory input. How else can we write genuine-sounding dialogue if we don’t pay attention to how people talk?

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  • Going for Broke

    In the beginning, the poker game had been my idea. I invited a few guys from the army for a friendly game. No stakes, just a fun way for a few of us from our old unit to kill a Friday night.

    At first it was just Pete, Daniel, Johnny, and me. We pretended we were playing in a big game like those guys in Atlantic City. But we spent most of the night eating and drinking as much as playing cards. Soon I invited a couple of the younger guys from the steel mill, Wyatt and James, to join in. The monthly game became more of a party.

    Then James got sick and we were looking for a last-minute replacement to keep the numbers even.

    “What about Nathan?” Johnny asked.

    Nathan had been one of our crew, but he was also a bit of a blowhard. He’d been married to MaryAnn for about six months. Word was that he was looking for a reason to get out of the house. So we invited him to fill in.

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  • Taking It With a Grain of Salt

    Glenn Hetrick, judge on Face Off.
    A witty remark makes for good television, but criticism like this is far from constructive.

    Criticism, whether giving it or taking it, is tricky business.

    I used to be an English instructor in college, so I’ve given my fair share of criticism. Freshman composition students are notorious for not caring about feedback, but it’s an important part of teaching.

    The best advice I ever received was from a veteran professor who told me to focus on one problem at a time. “If you mark everything that is wrong in a paper,” she advised, “the student won’t learn anything.”

    I’ve taken this same approach when critiquing in writers groups.

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  • We Will Always Need Cautionary Tales

    Lighthouse
    Like a lighthouse, stories can guide us through some dark places and help us avoid dangers we would not see.

    After Ray Bradbury wrote Fahrenheit 451 — his dystopian novel of a world where books are burned — he reportedly told interviewers “I wasn’t trying to tell the future, I was trying to prevent it.”

    Fahrenheit 451 is a cautionary tale, like so many of my favorite stories. If you think about it, some of the best stories are those that warn us of some great danger — real or imagined.

    • Ancient literature — From dealing with the devil to receiving wishes from a djinn, we are advised to be careful when dealing with supernatural creatures. The outcome is often not what we want, and it may cost us our souls.
    • History — We know to beware of Greeks bearing gifts, because — as the people of Troy found out only too well — a gift from an enemy can be a trap.
    • Fairy tales — The stories of “Little Red Riding Hood” or “Hansel and Gretel,” tell children to stay out of the woods because they are filled with dangerous animals and dark-hearted crones.
    • Science fiction — Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein warns of the hubris of human scientific advancement. As does the more recent Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton.  Just because we can do something, does that mean we should?

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  • Strange and Unusual: Non-Fiction and the Paranormal

    “I, myself, am strange and unusual.” ~ Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice

    I Want to BelieveThe great thing about writing fiction is that everything you believe can be true.

    I’m not much for writing non-fiction. I don’t like referencing sources. I hate bibliographies. I’m constantly afraid of misquoting someone or failing to attribute a fact. But if I were to devote myself to writing non-fiction, I could see myself delving back into my research from my early Internet days.

    In the early ’90s, I was really into researching UFOs. So much so, that I considered myself an amateur ufologist. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Too many episodes of The X-Files and way too much time on my hands.

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  • Charming

    Woodcut Our true selves are often not known to us or anyone close to us. Sometimes it takes a stranger to show us what is in our heart, and where our destiny will take us.

    The King and Queen had no other children, so when I became of age it was decided that I must join the royal court.

    “Charles, come with me,” said the King one morning as I arrived in the hall for breakfast. He arose from his throne and ushered me to the balcony behind the thick velvet curtains. The morning was bright and warm, a beautiful spring day lay ahead. Despite the fair weather, a storm hung over my father’s countenance.

    “What is it, Father? Is something wrong?”

    “You are becoming a man, and it’s time for you to increase your studies … if you are to be king someday.”

    He told me this as if it was a great honor, but I saw it as a punishment. I had no interest in becoming a king. I knew well it would mean an end to my freedom, as the duties of my office as prince would consume every last hour of my day.

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