The Last Word

The Last Word by Chris Green

As I walk along the coastal path early on a sunny Sunday morning, a light breeze blows from the south-west and the tide rolls gently in. There is no-one about at this hour. I take in the tranquillity. Having recently completed a story, I am hoping to draw inspiration for a new one. From past experience, these are perfect conditions to get the creative juices flowing. A sentence here, a sentence there, a character, a phrase, or just the germ of an idea. Many of my short stories have started this way. Not just material that reflect the current location and circumstances either. There is no telling what form the inspiration will take. Postcards from the Moon, De Chirico Shadows, Jazz, Beware of the God, and Sunday Girl, to name but a few, have come to me in this way on my coastal walks. A diverse selection of work. To remember the flashes of inspiration from my walks, I now make voice recordings on my phone.

Historically, many famous writers from Dickens and Wordsworth to Joyce and Hemingway took solitary walks to get inspiration for their work, although of course these greats of yesteryear either had to stop and write their ideas down or rely on memory. Graham Greene went for walks in towns and cities all over the world to get his background material. J. K. Rowling likens walking to dreaming, drawing a parallel between the REM dream state and the meditative-like state attained by exercise. Her walks around Edinburgh are legendary and have inspired many of the clever plot twists in her books.

But sadly today, mile after mile of the beautiful coastline brings nothing of interest. I seem to be going over and over old ground. I have experienced writer’s block before and have come through it. So, when I stop for a cup of tea and a bun at the beach cafe which is just opening for the day, I do not worry too much about the lack of progress. Inspiration is something that happens naturally. Creativity is not a process you can force. It has no sense of time. If you open yourself to the universe, they say, you will receive its bounty. It is a little like tuning in to the radio. The ideas are out there. You just have to be receptive to them. This has always worked for me up until now. Something will probably come floating in as I retrace my steps along the coast path later, but if it does not, there is always tomorrow.

As I make my way back, I take in the lapping sounds of the waves breaking gently on the shingle beach. Apart from the odd dog walker, the coastal path is still deserted. People seem to get up later on a Sunday. At the water’s edge, a parcel of oystercatchers keeps an eye on the progress of the tide. Perhaps it is about to turn. Are oystercatchers incoming tide feeders or outgoing tide feeders? Probably the latter. On a rocky outcrop up ahead, a cormorant is drying its wings. In heraldry, this pose represents the Christian cross. Scandinavians consider cormorants to be a good omen. Should I too see this as a sign? Somewhere far off, I hear the sounds of children playing and the echo of a dog barking. A procession of cumulus clouds paints a pleasing pattern against the azure sky. A brightly coloured boat criss-crosses the horizon as if posing for a child’s painting. It is an idyllic setting, a perfect stretch of coastline. Yet still, no inspiration for a story is forthcoming.

Like an apparition, the stranger appears out of nowhere. Suddenly he is there, facing me. He is over six feet tall and has a funereal aspect. He is thin as a rake and the long black coat and stovepipe hat he is wearing make him seem even taller. He has piercing blue eyes, a long white beard and a deathly pallor. His appearance would be startling anywhere, but here on a sunny morning on the Devon coast, this is certainly the case. I am more than startled. I am terrified.

‘You will not find it,’ he says.

Nervously, I ask the wraithlike stranger what he means.

‘You are looking for a story,’ he says. ‘But I’m afraid you are going to be disappointed.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I say.

‘There are no more stories,’ he says.

‘Of course there are,’ I say. ‘There will always be more stories.’

‘You are wrong, my friend,’ he says. ‘There were only ever a finite number of stories and the last one has gone. There will not be any more.’

‘How can there only be a finite number of stories?’ I say, defiantly. ‘There are stories everywhere. You and I meeting here today could be a story. It would be quite a dramatic story. What do you say to that?’

‘I’m afraid this has already been a story,’ he says. ‘It has been a story many times over.’

‘Do you then mean there will be no new stories in the philosophical sense?’ I ask. ‘As in there are only seven basic plots. Everything ever written falls into one or other of these.’

‘That is not what I mean,’ he says. ‘Believe me! There are no more stories, period. You will not find another story.’

From his body language, it looks as if he feels our business is done. But I can’t leave it there. I tell him I want more details.

‘As I said, there were only ever a finite number of stories,’ he says. ‘For a while, it looked as if the stock might last longer, but there has been a run on them lately. There are simply too many writers. Armand Ziegler, a Swiss magical realism author, who you’ve almost certainly never heard of, took the last one yesterday with his story, The Last Word. ………. That’s it, my friend. There is nothing more to say.’

‘There must be more stories,’ I say. ‘They can’t have all ……………..

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