The Star Fisher

by Christopher F. Mills

  If you look into the night sky you may spot them; two stars that appear as one bright star. A binary star system they are and were.

  A letter to Life,

  with notes on the delivery

  2014

  Dear Life,

  A bit earlier I stood with the sun warming my back and the cold north wind chilling my face. That north wind is the herald to snow. They say it will be here by Friday. When it comes it will be just like magic. The South is rare to know this miracle. I will consider it one of the cosmic miracles and know that it passed by the mountain on its way here, pulling magic from the top. Maybe it is there now, pulling the miracle of snow from the top of the mountain.

  What is The Star Fisher? As I look on it I see it is another failure at great writing; another failure at the attempt to write greatly of the miracle of life. But I am not dismayed, for it insisted and so I did the work it required of me. It is its own thing and whatever it is, is what I do not know. I don't have hopes many will like it. It is enigmatic, in its design and overall meaning. There is much in it that escapes me. While I wrote it, I was puzzled. After I completed it, I had to read it five times to get it, partly, at least. This, despite it making perfect sense the first time around.

  I hope that some person who reads it may define it for me. I think I wrote it for that one person, who also has a dream they cannot exactly define. I think anyone who dreams a great dream, against an impossible fate to make it come true, has such a story in them. An indefinite, indefinable story. Something they must first live, in utter confusion and near hopelessness, for a mighty long time and then someday, to write the tale of it, in parts, at least, and then to let it simmer awhile and read back over it and figure it out. What are we, without a dream? Nothing much. What are we with them? Who knows. Whatever it is, it is mystery to me. Just like the woman in the story. This little work is mystery and as I look on it, I wonder. And maybe that is it. Maybe that is the answer to the mystery of this. That it makes for wonder. The Star Fisher is much like that algebraic equation. You must solve for the X, the unknown.

  What is The Star Fisher? I keep asking myself that. Now I ask you. I do know it is biography, fairy tale, one forever love story—eternally unfinished on this earth—and a full fool's course in worldly philosophy. The Star Fisher left the biggest part open for the imagination of the reader. It is a love story writ in the stars, discovered in the stars and gone back into the stars. It is about original starlight. I have no commercial ambitions for it, only aspirations. It took a lifetime, a short walk through eternity, to compose it. It is, all told, a grand theory of love, that myth of men that makes them men and monsters both, depending on how much or little of that love they have within them. That is what I have found, the more love a soul has within, the more this world will hurt them and the less they will hurt it. The less of love a soul has within, the more they will hurt this world and the less this world will hurt them. If the soul can say “This world has injured me, but I will not injure the world back.” That soul has true love within. If the soul will say, “This world has injured me, and I will injure back this world.” That soul has no true love within.

  This book is biography of love, that impossible dream of poets. It is fiction and fable and true story. It is myth, mystery and philosophy. If ever a writer put his heart on the line, this one did here. But if you are going to be a true anything, putting it all on the line is the only thing left, after all the art of bull has been employed. For me, it is a walk across earth and a flight through the cosmos. And what comes of walking and flying, well I cannot know that. But I would like to know. Maybe some day you will write and tell me. Maybe it is a searching for the one star so bright I cannot see her.

  The plot, at least to me, was most complicated. And then, all of a sudden, became very simple. It is a mystery story. Best I can tell is that it is the end part of a love story, and the culmination of an old and ancient dream. Maybe I wrote it to let dreamers know how dreams might come out in the real world; to let dreamers know that the dream is the thing; the dream is the journey, far more than whatever the dream, to them, represents.

  I had to write this book. It is not a great book. I see clearly now that I have writ no great books. I did try just that, though. I tried for an eternity, it seems, day and night, to do that. And I failed. But I have learned the difficult way that when one has truly given their best, for as long as they could, then even failure may be a noble thing. And I do not feel like a failure about it all. I did do my best. I wrote it just for one: you, of course. The one that is life. It will not make me rich or even pay for a single hot bath. I won't worry or wonder that it won't touch many hearts.

  Wonder. . . . That is the great thing to me about life. I look back now on a small eternity of wonder known. It was a singular time, in congress with a great wonder. In-between the regular days there were sparks of light that made me gape in wonder. Sometimes it felt the sparks had faded and the memory of old sparks had been covered over by fell time and forgotten memory and I did not hold my remaining breaths for any new sparks to come and give to me new news of wonder. But then I would remember wonder, that it is dependent on the wonderer. And that is why I am glad I wrote all my wonder down as soon as I could do it. Man records so many things that are unmemorable, and lets the wonder go by unnoticed. I know the day will come when wonder dies for me. I know also the possibility of the wonder in my mind could end before the life of my body does. It seems to have done that many times before, but like the phoenix, it burns bright again. And I made record of the bright things. These are the records of one fool's truth and beauty, found along the way in divers places and times. I hope they give a spark to future wonderers to come. I hope they give a spark to you.

  In the end, there is no other fable in the story of man like the great fiction of love. The mythical story of love is mankind's favorite myth and we each tell our tale and add to that great myth in our own way. We are all fable makers and mythical beings, and when the last man dies from this earth, his story of love, or love's lack, is all he will leave. So maybe that is what The Star Fisher is, for me: my small addition to the myth of love. I think I will go and join the circus now. Have some fun for a change. Ride an elephant, tame a tiger, throw a bear some chocolate donuts. Make love to a two-headed Asian woman/women.

  Yes. I quit. It is dead to me now and I am dead to it. I will do myself a big favor and be done of this writing. I will hire a trained monkey to finish the rest. This writing life was difficult and the smart part of me long has wished I would have never met the pen I didn't like. If I ever have a son I will insist he not even learn how to spell in the first place. Or to type. Or even to think. I will just tell him to LIVE. So he can make up for his father. This writing life is too hard, I say. Again and again, I say it. I rue the day I picked up a pen and sat down to think with it. I will tell my future, hoped-for son, “Do your thinking on the run and no thought will have a chance to catch up with you and imprison you by its beauty or its ugly or its wonder. And whatever you do, don't EVER let a woman ensnare you with her charms. That is rule number one, my son.”

  I am exhausted of this long labor and if I never write another word, I would be a somewhat happy man, just for that. I tire of the burden; of the constant, never-ending hours. I tire of the quiet and solitude. Perhaps obscurity is not all its cracked up to be, after an eternity of it? This be sure: writing isn't. But I never did believe it was. And I did it anyway, because I was the fool. Because it insisted. Because it would not allow me to sleep like a normal, regular, happy and sane human being. It's been too long since I have had a great street-fight. My hands have become soft. Where are Wallace Stevens and Ernest Hemingway when they are needed. Blowing in the wind, both of them. Me, too, soon. But you? Never. Life goes on, always. I wish to hear some loud, happy noises before my atoms blow in the north wind. I wish to get drunk and run down a street alongside, but not ahead of, a bull. Maybe one last, great, friendly street-fight. And I will remember that a m
an may be destroyed, but not defeated. I sure know what Hemingway meant by that. I have lived the meaning of that ironic sentence all my life. I wish to jump out of a spaceship and free-fall through outer space toward the next star system. I would like to name a new constellation. The bucket list of the lonely writer is just life itself. Enough of this damned writing. A mind that could be smarter, if it did not decide to be so dumb, forfeits its own intelligence. That, to me, describes the serious writer. Glad I was never serious. It has always been a damned unfunny joke to me.

  I wish I would have never loved you. . . . I have said that once or twice before. You, too? But had I not loved you, well, no telling what about all that. I am glad I loved you. Glad enough. But had I never loved you, I never would have writ the second word. I would have writ dollar signs and not these fell, poor words here and elsewhere. Foul beast that gave to me the most, and by that, gave back to me, the least. A foul beast you are, Life, and I rue the day your name slipped across my lips. But it is a bonny regret; a beautiful sorrow. Let me tell you, dear friend, the whole trick to love, as I have discovered it: learn to leave well enough alone. And good luck with that. Maybe, in truth, that is the trick to false love and true love never lets love alone at all? In true love we are sick, and are not well enough at all, unless our beloved is near us? I don't know anything about true love to know that for sure. For I never knew true love. Not the kind that is paid in kind. It does take two great stars to make that kind, and I never knew such light. I was never so blinded.

  If I were ambitious I would publicly campaign for a private office: that of most favorite author in the hearts of his country men. But I am not ambitious. As long as I am the favorite one in yours, I will be happy enough about it. I will close the poor office of the obscure writer and be quit of this lunacy. I will go for a long ride in a Nash Rambler. I saw one just the other day in a run-down, woebegone state of disrepair. The dandelions were growing out of the floorboard. I will duck-tape and spackle the floorboard and go on a long drive to the great mountain. Now that all old beauty has faded and all old beauty recorded, I will go see the great Pacific and look for the flying black whale.

  And then maybe I will come back and write something commercial. Might as well. Everybody else is. Think I'll jump on that shiny wagon after jumping off this concealed one. Fame wouldn't be so bad, after all. Fame would be nice, for a change. I might have fifteen minutes to spare. I'll Fred Flintstone the hell out of that Rambler to get back fifteen minutes early, just to be sure. For as you know, I always make it on time with the important deliveries.

  It's my job.

  Yours, everlasting

  Christopher

  12:43 pm S.M.T.

  January 21, 2014

  THE TICKET TO WONDER

  What is YOUR story? If you are at the start: What will it be? If you are in the middle: One last chance. If you are at the end: What has it been? In these works Christopher F. Mills shows that the greatest stories—like the best lives—come from a place inspired by wonder. Do you have wonder? Here are some inspired-by-wonder works to framework your own extraordinary tale.

  —Ganry Danic, reporter for the Sun Times

  The Damascus Oil Lamp

  An American millionaire travels to the most ancient city on earth and is given the task of writing The Twelve Talents of Fortune. A message steeped in ancient lore on how to discover and follow your dream.

  The Little's Christmas Tree Farm

  When an old man loses belief in his life-long dream, a stranger comes to town and gives him a bag of seeds by which to regrow his belief. Sometimes, in a place where Christmas trees are grown, no trees will grow. But something just might... If one believes.

  The Ticket: Parts One & Two

  Here is your ticket to ride The Mighty Melancholic. Keep it safe. Only one ticket per dreamer. Short novelettes on inspiration. Part Two is for a special kind of mother that few are asked by destiny to become.

  The Incredible Tales of Crispy the Great

  Before he invented the hovercraft and became the planet's first trillionaire, A. C. Braithewaite was just a young man who liked to raise hell. These are the incredible-yet-true tales of his early days.

  “If you have a funny bone, these stories will break it.”—Jerry Seinfeld

  Johny Beaumont/movie script

  Johny Beaumont just wanted to leave home and see the world. But his destiny was to run down the myth on the mountain he grew up on. It's about a man, a mountain and a myth—and how they came together to make a legend.

  “The coolest movie script since Rebel Without a Cause.” —Rolling Stone

  The Christmas Wish

  Galen Bralieg was a pilot in WW2 and a general in Vietnam. What he left behind in the Great War and what he brought home from Vietnam form the basis for this romantic, heart-warming Christmas story. A story of fathers and sons, and a wish that took seventy years to come to pass.

  “The greatest bar brawl, air battle and romantic love scenes... I've ever read.” —Leonard Maltin

  Prom Night '88

  Have you ever wondered what would happen if you hitched your Studebaker to a star in a cotton field while on date with a dream girl? A short story full of humor, life, and Unidentified Flying Objects.

  The Immortal Rocket Frog of Wallops Island

  The short story of a long jump. A bull-frog named Huckleberry Jack once caught a ride to the moon on a rocket and decided if it was the last thing he ever did, he would find his way back home. A tale of the impossible.

  “Dear Mr. Mills, Huckleberry Jack sends his love. And thanks for the great speech. It was my best ever. ” —President Obama (cares)

  The Gemstone

  A love story that began in the Middle Ages and found its completion in the Space Age. Some love never dies. Some love last forever. A belle-lettre novel and poet's master thesis on the human heart.

  “The Great belle-letter novel of the age. This book will astonish the nations.” —Heidi Strother

  How to Become Famous in High School

  Beau Braithewaite was a boy with a simple dream: just to make friends and a life for himself. This is the ghostwritten memoir of how he became famous instead.

  “Google” Smashwords.com and in the search bar type: Christopher F. Mills. His Author Page will show up. Most of these Gemstones are free. Tell others of these fantastic new stories & Thanks for reading! Contact: Cforestmills@gmail.com

  To find the works “Google” Smashwords.com and in the search bar type: Christopher F. Mills. His Author Page will show up. Most of these Gemstones are free.

  Tell others of these fantastic new stories & Thanks for reading!

  Contact: Cforestmills@gmail.com

  Dear Reader,

  Here are easy-to-use clickable links. Just click 'em. It's like magic. If you would help the Star Fisher bring a new age of wonder into the world, that would be wonderful of you. It's easy, just be full of wonder. And share it.

  Clickable links

  The Christmas Wish

  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/329542

  How to Become Famous in High School

  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/314156

  The Gemstone

  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/268429

  Johny Beaumont; A Movie Script

  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/353530

  Meeting on Blue Mountain; author interview

  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/355089

  Prom Night '88 (short story)

  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/356064

  Claire Capture

  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/363778

  The Immortal Rocket Frog of Wallops Island

  The Ticket: The Apple-seller Parts One and Two

  The Immortal Stories of Crispy the Great

 

 

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