[Critique Group 2] Emailing: Who knows where the time goes-for 2/27/18 critique session

[James]

Dear friends of Group 2,

This piece can best be described as a "Speculative memoir." It began to take
shape after I read a lengthy scene on a boat in Key West where a group of
characters were watching the sunset and hoping to see the green flash. I had
also been thinking about time and the writer's retreat clambake in "Time
Quake " in Kurt Vonnegut's novel of the same name and hey presto, this piece
took shape quickly. It took longer to edit and polish than create. But isn't
that frequently the case? It often is for me. Anyway here it is. It is great
to be back! 

***
Who Knows Where The Time Goes?
© By Brad Corallo 
Word count 367 

I sat on the large deck overlooking the sea with a contingent of fellow
travelers and waited for the sun to set. Speaking figuratively, for most of
us the sun had just about fully set already. Four attractive young men and
women attired in rainbow shirts and white shorts circulated, serving
everyone their drink of choice. 

I was born with compromised vision, lost almost all of that, and through
some clever retinal implants, I could see sunsets and the breasts and faces
of women once again. The measure of my gratitude was almost too large to
encompass. 

Quietly, the strains of Sinatra’s “It Was a Very Good Year” began to play as
sentimental background. 

I sipped my drink and my eyes filled. How did I get to be this old? When did
it all happen? I was fairly sure that some sorcery had been involved.
Somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, something had stolen away some
years. 

Over my long life, I had seen great times and awful times. I had loved and
hated. I had lost much and gained much more than I realized when it was
happening. How could I be sitting here on this deck near the end of my life
waiting for the sunset? 

I signaled for another drink and drained my glass to the dregs. For an
instant, I felt the strangest sense of déjà vu. It seemed like I had been in
this exact situation before. There was an eerie familiarity about it all. I
wondered momentarily if there was some repeating loop at the center of all
our lives. Did we experience life, then forget and then reexperience it
again as if new, but with a vague sense of familiarity? Perhaps! 

The old fellow sitting on my left leaned over and asked quietly: “You don’t
really expect to get an answer to that one, do you?”

I took a deep breath and replied, “No, I’m afraid not.”

As the sun seemed to fall majestically into the sea, the sweet, long dead
voice of Sandy Denny wondered in the background: “who knows where the time
goes-who knows where the time goes?” 

jamesstarfire at gmail.com


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