THE BLIZZARD

“I must make better choices!” Allison sobbed.

Gordon tried to hug her. “Just give it some time, I promise-”

“Don`t!” She pushed him away. “God knows I tried. I hope you get what you want, but I can't wait another five years to be happy.”

They stood in silence.

“Nothing? Really? Goodbye, Gordon.”

For a moment, Allison rested her hand on the suitcase's handle. Her grip turned from red into white; she leaned forward no more than an inch before finally turning around and shutting the door behind her. The sound of it echoed within Gordon. It hurt. But less than he thought it would. Eventually, his old vacuum cleaner would suck all her blonde hair from his studio apartment, he would use all her peach shampoo, and all her remaining clothing would be donated to The Salvation Army. She would be a phantom. His desirable sidekick, whose company he had been enjoying for the past five years.

A sidekick. That would strengthen the plot.

Gordon drifted toward his desk. Two steps and he was in the living/bedroom: postmodern art on the walls, an old pleather couch by the window, and heaps of reference books near the desk. He took his creative throne, ready to continue his Great American Novel. The laptop was taking its sweet time to start, so he lit a cigarette. The gray clouds filled the room, yet he kept his window closed. The artist must suffer. From trauma, broken heart, or poison. Gordon fished for a bottle of brown liquid and a cloudy glass beneath his desk. Just one for inspiration. Finally, his laptop showed signs of life. He searched his desktop and opened the file called The Blizzard.

He had to show something the next day during his meeting with an editor. Gordon brushed away his hair and puffed his smoke. His fingers were hovering over the keyboard, like those of a maestro. He waited for his muse to make love to his foggy brain. A moment, or perhaps eternity, and only drops of sweat fell on his writing instrument. Do muses get days off? Or call in sick? He went online to search for some writing music to set the mood. New trailers of well-manufactured movies, artificial travel blogs, and the kings of them all: motivational videos. The twilight settled in behind the window. It was the time. All the greats created at night, and never sober. He poured himself another drink.

A buzzing noise shifted his attention to a smaller screen.

“Hey, man. Do you wanna hang out? Amy`s on the door tonight.”

Fuck. He shut the laptop.

“Yeap. Let's do it,” Gordon replied.

“You got it. I'll see you in an hour.”

Hemingway said it for a good reason, in order to write about life, one must live it. Gordon started getting ready to search for a muse outside of his walls. The man looked in the mirror. His dark and rather long hair was gently silvered near his face, framing his green eyes. Gordon covered his slender body with a crimson shirt. Still got it. For how long? It didn't matter. The great ones never lived long; they burned on the altar of their craft. Hot, bright, and radiant.

Half an hour later, with a cigarette between his lips, he was strolling through the city lights to his favorite destination: Dorian`s. There was no other place like it. Gordon knew he would meet all the usuals in there: starving artists, their groupies, and delusional youngsters, who would eventually become one or another. Gordon thought of himself as a separate category: a talent right before his breakthrough.

“Hey! How're you?” Clark was already waiting for him at the entrance.

“It was good before I saw your face,” Gordon chuckled.

“Shut up, or I won`t pay for your booze.”

After a handshake, Clark heaved the wooden door.

“Welcome to Dorian`s Art Space,” a young woman with green hair that was matching her eyes greeted them.

“Come on, Amy. It's a bar. The only difference is that you have more art school dropouts among your regulars,” Gordon smirked.

“When did you say you graduate?” Amy was ready.

“Touche,” Clark beamed.

“I'll join you guys after my shift,” Amy said and turned to greet the next guest.

Past the hostess, they stepped inside. The dim Dorian`s was welcoming, as always. B.B. King`s “Rock Me Baby” filled the room. Great alcohol, a bunch of freaks, and wooden panel walls to hide them from the world. It was home. He remembered every cent that he spent from his advance for The Blizzard within these walls. The book signing deal, Clark`s new job, and Allison`s birthday. Allison. It hadn't been even a day, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Was she there at all?

“Choose your poison, gentlemen,” The bartender approached them.

“Macallen, neat.” Gordon did not have to think twice.

“He'll have a beer, and so will I.” Clark`s response followed right after.

“Hey! I thought sellouts get paid a big buck.” Gordon said.

“They get paid. Period.” Clark grabbed their beers and tossed one to Gordon.

After the first bottle, a few more followed. Their talks were reminiscent of past adventures: years in college, Clark had more of those and loved to remind Gordon about it, their trip to India in search of spiritual inspiration, and the time they spent working on their artistic baby - The Dreamcatcher Review. It had survived six issues. Clark was always a better editor than a writer; the magazine was his idea. Gordon loved to joke that it was the only way for him to get published. His friend went on about that one story that was accepted, but the magazine ceased to exist right after, which led to more laughing. Not only did their magazine die from his art's injection, but he spread this virus across the publishing world. Gordon looked at the mirror behind the bar. Had it really been twenty years?

“I hope you`re drunk enough,” Clark chuckled, “it`s Thursday.”

“Fuck me. Midnight Poetry.”

There was a tiny red stage in the corner of the bar. The backdrop consisted of hundreds of photographs cluttered together; quite a few of them had Gordon on them. A tall stool was already in the middle of the stage, the lights got dimmer, and the microphone high-pitched with excitement. The show was about to begin.

“Ok, it`s time to go.” Gordon reached for his jacket.

“Oh, come on! Let's stay. It can`t be that bad.”

“Hello, and welcome to Midnight Poetry! Are you ready for some rhymes?” A tiny lady with large glasses was greeted with loud applause and whistling.

It began. A dozen poets went on the stage that night. To keep themselves entertained, Gordon and Clark played a game: one shot after each time someone said the words pain or hurt. About five poems down, they stopped keeping track of it. Gordon clenched the table with his left hand to keep the balance. He looked at the stage again. There was a young girl: blond hair, mid-height with a quirky smile. Allison?

“Allison!” Gordon got up. “What are you doing here? What do you know about art?” A heavy hand landed right on his shoulder, forcing him back into the chair.

“Sorry, please continue. Mi amigo got one too many. Great poem by the way,” Clark chuckled.

He was always one to worry about his public image. That's why his writing was dull. Gordon`s mind was swirling. Defending her? Showed up here on the same day? Poetry? She never wrote a thing in her life.

“What the hell was that?” Right after people stopped staring at them, his friend got back to his seat.

“She never liked it here. Now that we broke up, she's here?” Gordon said.

“That's not Allison, you drunkface! Wait what?”

“She left today.”

Gordon squinted. The stage blurred into one mash of colors. He blinked a few times, trying to get the shapes out of the fuzzy canvas in front of him. She had brown eyes, and Allison`s were blue. The girl was at least five years younger than his ex, and a few inches shorter. It didn't matter to him. Allisons, Emmas, and Ashleys: they all stood on the stage tonight, all knew nothing of true art, and all left him that day.

“She left? Why didn`t you say anything?” Clark pried.

“Listen, man, it doesn`t matter.”

“She's been tolerating you for five years. I don`t think you understand-”

“Are you, guys, OK?” The hostess, Amy, popped up from behind Gordon`s back with two shots in her right hand and one in her left.

“Excellent! Except for Gordon, he’ll die alone,’ Clark concluded.

“What happened to Allison?”

“Long story.” Gordon reached for one of the shots in her hands.

“She left. End of the story,” Clark continued, “we better get going, I have to work tomorrow.”

“I don`t, I`ll stay.” He emptied the second shot that was meant for Clark.

“Can you make sure he gets the cab?”

Clark closed the tab on his way out. Thankfully, the poetic torment was over. Instead, Gordon was now surviving through endless stories about Amy`s art school. Her new ceramics teacher, the end-of-the-term exhibition the next day, and the painting she had been working on for the past few weeks. Gordon wasn't sure if he looked engaged enough; he nodded every time she gasped for air between her sentences. There were only a few people left at Dorian`s, staggering about, knocking the furniture around them, and revealing their drunken love to each other. First daylight – time to go home.

“Do you want to see it?” Amy's question interrupted his observation.

“Sorry, what?”

“My painting.”

In a few minutes, they left the walls of Dorian`s behind, cruising the nearly empty streets. The office workers were yet to drink their coffees, and the traffic jams were still a few hours away. The city was silent, and so was Amy. The Sun was gently glowing between the concrete towers, illuminating the path for two intoxicated individuals. Block after block, they were moving into an older part of downtown until they reached a gray three-story condo building. Cracked stucco walls, boarded-up windows on the first floor, and untrimmed hedges – home of an artist.

“Here we are.” Amy opened the front door and led him to the third floor.

At first, the lock didn't budge; Amy forced it with her shoulder, and the door flung open. They were greeted by a gray cat, who was studying the newcomer. Had it seen many?

“It's my roommate`s. She won`t be back till Sunday.”

They took off their shoes, even though Gordon didn't see a point in doing so in that mess of an apartment. Wet laundry all over the living room, clumps of hair mixed with the fur on the floor, and a heap of dishes over the sink. Amy`s bedroom was not much better. A queen-size mattress was piled with hundreds of pieces of clothing, which she swiped on the floor before sitting down. Next to it, there was a giant canvas. Strokes of blue and white gently intertwined on it, framing two dark figures. It took Gordon a minute to focus on the image: a woman outstretched her hand toward a man lying in a white mound of snow, but his vacant eyes staring into the cloudy sky. Gordon knew that gaze. He saw it often in his mirror.

“What do you think? I call it-”

“The Blizzard.” Gordon finished her sentence.

“Yeah, too obvious. Isn`t it?”

“It's simple. There's beauty in simplicity, and there's depth in it.”

Gordon looked again at the man in the picture. He was far: far from the snow, far from the wind, and far from the woman. He couldn't see the hand behind the walls of the blizzard around him, nor did he want to see it. Locked in his inner self, his mind spiraling around millions of worlds, save but one – the real one.

A green lock of hair fell gently over his shoulder from behind his back. Amy`s warm lips were moving down his neck, leaving a trace. Her heavy breathing made him shiver. Gordon`s inebriated mind made him dazzle from pleasure. He was there – present and dissolved in the moment. Just a moment.

“I`m sorry, I have to go.” Gordon turned.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“If I stay, you'll wake up in five years and regret your choices, and I`ll still suffer over the empty page.”

“Please...stay.”

He left for the morning street. Gordon still could feel her hands around him like they weren't turned down by his apathy: tender, playful, and lustful. She would be better off; they both would.

The drunk navigation never betrayed him; that time was not an exception. The flaneur was out and about the madness of the morning city. Cars, phones, billboards, but his mind turned back to The Blizzard. Mostly, to the one he was writing, but the images of the one he saw kept disturbing his creative daydreaming. What were the odds of that? Bound by the same theme, two pieces of art were created by people who couldn't be more different. Gordon had been nurturing his Blizzard for the past twenty years; all the stories, the bits, and the pieces led him to this one great work. Every paragraph, sentence, and word were part of the pinnacle of his writing technique. Amy, however, was just born when his first story was published. She only picked up the brush a few years ago, yet her Blizzard was full of life and emotion. It wasn't a great work of art, but it was something. It made Gordon feel, even if not for long.

Home. He crashed into the bed, his head spinning from alcohol, perhaps, not only alcohol. Allison, Amy, and the hand in the blizzard...

The alarm took off at noon. The buzz of it drilled through Gordon`s weary head. The meeting.

A cold shower, followed by a cold pizza slice, and he was already packing the manuscript into a bag. Gordon had some new pages to show, but it was not enough to make his editor happy. He was worried, but not enough to stay awake on a bus. Fortunately for Gordon, a homeless man was crossing in the middle of a street. The bus driver halted, and the tires squeaked under pressure.

“Fuck you! Look where you drive, you piece of shit!”

The charm of a big city. Gordon was wide awake now and was observing the man. Dark hair, with some glimpse of silver, and a thin body covered by rags. He met Gordon`s eyes through the windshield. Green, like his, they were not full of hatred but rather pain and bitterness. He looked like someone he knew. Gordon shivered. Perhaps, the man was an artist once too. The bus picked up the pace, leaving the man behind. Gordon swallowed and gripped his bag tight. It had to work.

Third floor, the first office to the left. Every time he dreaded turning that knob. Gordon felt like a failing student coming to the principal's office. The price of not turning it, however, was too high: being left by busses, by women, and by his own mind. Gordon had taken a deep breath and entered the office.

“Erica! How`re you?” He tried his best to sound upbeat.

“Depends on what you brought me today.” It was her usual, pleasant greeting.

Gordon didn't know anyone as ruthless in the industry as Erica was, and neither did he know anyone who aged so gracefully, even her gray hair looked the part. That oddity fascinated him. He wasn't sure what was the main reason he chose to work with her, but she did keep him on track when needed. Perhaps, not only with his work. He was grateful, sometimes scared, but grateful.

“Some quality stuff, not a lot of it, but it's good,” Gordon beamed.

“Is it enough to sell it as a novel in three months?”

“Perhaps, novella?”

“Damn it, Gordon,” she sighed and put her glasses on.

“Should I wait here?” He handed her the manuscript.

“It won`t take too long. Get yourself some coffee, you know where everything is.”

Gordon went out of the office to a cafeteria on the same floor. How many authors had their coffees in here, waiting for a verdict? Tapping their feet, biting their nails, and scrolling through endless social media pages. He knew some of them: some successful and some not so much, all united by fear. Whether one had a few short stories published or dozens of novels – it didn't matter. Imposter syndrome haunted them all.

“Black, dark roast.” Gordon approached the coffee bar.

“Sure, just a moment, please.” The barista went on with the brewing.

“Is the balcony open already?”

“Yeap, since Monday.”

Gordon grabbed his mug and went to the cafeteria's balcony. He crossed his legs and lit a cigarette; three more followed. He tried to prolong his coffee till the end, having a few cold sips of brew with the fourth smoke. The city was unfolding in front of him: the touches of green on the trees, flowers around the reopened terraces, and women in the sun dresses. Gordon had been so long in The Blizzard he missed the time spring took over. He looked at his brown leather boots. It was time to change.

The phone buzzed. Erica was ready.

“I have good news and bad news,” she welcomed Gordon back in her office.

“Just say it.” He crashed into the chair by Erica`s desk.

“It's great writing in terms of technique. Your words, sentences, and paragraphs are beautiful.”

“But?”

“It's dead. There's no soul in it. Your protagonist is a borderline between sociopath and psychopath. Who would root for him? Relate? He doesn't see anyone around him. For years he didn't change? He didn't grow?” Erica pushed the manuscript toward him.

“He might just yet. It's not the end,” Gordon replied.

She sighed, “Listen, we have three months left. I need at least two to make it print-ready. Last chance.”

“Thank you! You know you`re the best, right?”

“Go write, for God's sake.”

Erica`s words stuck with him on his way home. Gordon thought of people around him: he lost Allison, only God knew why Clark was still around, and Amy. That sweet girl was always there: getting drinks, visiting his readings, and buying the issues with his stories. There was no coincidence. There was no his Blizzard or her Blizzard, but rather two incomplete pieces of art: his technique on paper and her emotions on canvas. What else didn't he see?

Exhibition. It was the day. He left one bus and hopped on another one. Gordon felt stupid, but for the first time, he was fine with that. Friends, family, and loved ones – could be a distraction, annoyance, or even a curse. They also could be a focus, comfort, and inspiration. How could one write about love without truly being heartbroken? Tell a story about loss, or happiness? Twenty years of writing, twenty hundred books read, and zero lives truly lived. Gordon was laughing. People who sat next to him pretended it was their stop and moved toward the exit door. He didn't care.

In ten minutes, he was opening the door of the main hall of Amy`s art school. The horde of people was roaming around from one exhibit to another, pretending to know what they were looking at. He decided to do the same. Sculptures, paintings, and photographs. It took Gordon a few minutes to find the one. Two dark figures amid the snowy storm. It looked different somehow: the eyes of the man in the picture were lively, hopeful. He saw through the storm, he saw the hand.

“I tweaked it slightly.” Amy`s voice sounded from behind him.

“It's better this way,” he replied.

“I know. I`m glad you think that too.”

“When do you finish?”

“It's almost over. I'm free to go.” Amy outstretched her hand toward Gordon, her eyes meeting his.

Gordon looked at her, and after at her hand. He smiled. Spring came - the blizzard was over.

Dan Shpyra is a Ukrainian-Canadian writer based in Calgary, Alberta. Over the past few years, he has been teaching business and communications at the college level while pursuing an MA in Creative Writing from The University of Hull. Since rediscovering his passion for writing, Dan got seven short stories published