Christopher Allen Ryser

At last! My very first "creative writing" blog post. This was written in early 2009. Most of my Saturday postings will be new/unreleased, but I thought I'd start with a "classic" of my writing. Enjoy!

I fell asleep to the sound of him typing. Every night. I never asked him what he was writing. It was the Great American novel. Well, that's what he wished. Every night, he'd write and write and write. Type, type, type. Click, click, click. The sound of the keys, his sighs of defeat, gasps of inspiration, moans of desperation, all became part of me. I fell in love with the writer I barely knew.

His name was Christopher Allen Ryser. C.A.R. In my mind, he told me stories of his parents, both car-lovers, and how they gave him those initials. Other times, they did it on accident, and it was fate that made him a car-lover. Or ironic because he hated cars.

He had many stories. When he'd type at night, I imagined him telling me the things he wrote. They were fascinating stories. I sometimes wondered if his stories were anywhere near as good as the ones he told me in my imagination. I decided they were much better.

I did not know the colour of his eyes; I rarely saw him. He had short brown hair, a soft chin, and a tired face. My dreams were filled with him. He never stopped telling me stories. He whispered them into my ear as I laid in his arms. When he'd kiss me, his lips spoke to mine, telling them the most amazing things imaginable.

At times, the reality that he would never be mine, that he did not even know me, would consume me. It burned through me like swallowing hot wax. I moaned in pain when I thought these things. Christopher Allen Ryser, I whispered weakly. I wished my last name would be Ryser.
Was I wrong to love him? Perhaps, but it could not be helped.

He was a writer. He was a storyteller. He was a puppet master, and the world and I were his captivated audience. He was never published during his lifetime, though his niece managed to get some of his writings published after he passed away. She had been a beautiful little girl, always visiting her Uncle Chris and bringing him flowers. He told her stories. His voice was loving and strong and filled with a gentleness just for her. When he would speak to me, it was with a tired, weary voice, the weight of his writing heavy upon him.

He died young. Cancer. A week before he died, he did not write. Instead, he sat down at the foot of my bed and spoke to me in his tired, weary voice. This time, however, it was not his writing which ailed him; it was his own pending death.

"Look after her, please," he asked me. That was all he said, and then he wept. In my dreams, it was I who was in his arms, but this time, he was in mine. Neither of us said a word. He did not sob, but tears soaked his face and clothing.

After he died, his niece still visited. Now, it was I who gave flowers. I cared for her, just as her uncle had wished. As she grew older, she became a beautiful woman. She told me she was in love with me when she was 24 years old, so I married her and took her name. I knew I didn't love her the way I had loved her uncle, but I also knew I should never have loved a man.

She was a good wife, and I loved her as a sister. I wished I could have been a better husband, but she never complained. We had two children. Our son was named him Christopher Allen Ryser, Jr., after his great uncle whom he looked exactly like. Our daughter was named Lillian Alexandra Ryser, after her parents, Lillian and Alexander Ryser. She looked just like her mother. I loved our children just as I did their mother and great-uncle: with all of my heart.

In my dreams, I still heard him typing every night. He spoke to me. He told me stories. He cried in my arms, sometimes, and I told him how his niece and her children were doing. It seemed to make him happier. I never told him or anyone else, even in my dreams, that I had loved him. He knew.