I am a writer. I have been writing most of my life. It’s what I am. When I learned about health I did what came naturally to me, I wrote about it. Writing is in my blood. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. It’s what I do. It is the foundation of my reputation. Either I am a good writer, and therefore a good communicator, or I am a failure. When you write something that speaks to people in visceral manner you reach them in ways that can change their thinking, perhaps even their lives, then you’ve done your job as a writer.
If you’re not literary minded, you’re probably not going to either like or understand the story. However, you may still you appreciate some of the writing. Here’s a short piece of fiction I included in my book, Twelve, which was published in 2008. – Bob McCauley
By Bob McCauley
Part One: The Elevator
Elevators are traps of the modern world, benign-looking snares waiting for the unwary to step aboard and be lifted to some unreachable location between floors where they dangle at the whim of rusted cables, gears and pulleys.
Several people became victims of the prank one morning, stranding them for nearly half an hour. The penal time was spent in absolute silence, as though such an edict had been issued by the metal tyrant. The four walls of the tiny car stared at them as one man read the morning paper, another stared at his watch and the two women examined their nails, folded their arms and sighed impatiently.
When it finally decided to free its hostages, they were returned to the lobby where they were found. Its doors snapped at legs and arms in a final act of hostility against their race, trying to close the doors on one woman and take her on another mechanical ride of terror. Then the doors reopened like two welcoming arms as though to insist its fit was an anomaly and that all who stepped aboard would be safer than if they hadn’t. One of its victims warned the others of its cunning.
A crowd soon accumulated when another elevator did not arrive. Men in blue and ash-colored suits stood quietly in circles while others read in solitude the morning papers. The correctness of their postures was as meticulous as their clothing.
A group of older men stood apart from the rest. They were partners at the law firm where all these men and women worked. Relaxed and amiable laughter purled from their circle, the kind of joking conducted between colleagues who belong to a closed society. Smiles broke warmly as they gripped shoulders in a rite which insisted that here was a brotherhood above any other.
One of the senior associates who’d gotten stuck on the elevator earlier stood near the partners trying to eavesdrop. He stared at them like a dog under the table hoping for scrapes. He longed to stand amongst them, while still younger associates looked on and wished to be him.
He spotted another associate coming toward him, which made him bend his head and appear lost in meditation of briefs and legalese.
Read the Rest of Success Story here.
My favorite literary authors and why I admire them.