A Collaboration
If he were attacked, the walk might prove significant, but does he really want to face this possibility? He’s been able to get through all these years without getting mugged. Is now a good time? He is in that state of mind where risk is welcome, reason pushed back, as if some primal forces in him have awoken and suppressed his Homo sapiens shell.
You and I agree: A violent assault would be too predictable. We have to think of something better. We remain silent, trying to envision Goombeldt’s future. Then it occurs to me. For some reason, I whisper it in your ear.
Goombeldt turns into a smaller street. There are no signs. Should he be here at this hour? At a time like this, in a city like this, it would be no surprise if Zungvilda were in some kind of trouble.
Just as he ponders this possibility, Goombeldt becomes aware of a movement on his right. He turns his head, but now everything is still. Whatever it was, it looked small, marginal. He is intrigued. Hesitantly, he walks in that direction. Indeed, something is there in the shadow . . . someone . . . it’s a child . . . a little girl. She freezes.
As he approaches, stepping carefully so as not to scare her, Goombeldt can see her eyes staring at him. Her face is distorted in the dim light.
“What is so odd about the face?” I ask as you take a big bite of another chocolate-covered cookie. “Do we have to worry about it?”
You frown, and we agree that the reader’s imagination ought to make up for the lack of description. After all, unnamed things wield more power.
We are done with our tea. I offer to type for a while, but you are so excited you won’t hear of it. I don’t mind. I let you have your way with the keyboard. I’ve typed most of my other work. Today, I feel like a cab driver in a passenger’s seat, a sensation well worth getting used to. Besides, you are so much fun to work with. Your creative choices are sound, and Goombeldt’s story would have never worked out if you weren’t in on the writing.