Day 107 - Parchment Story

Parchment Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Parchment and quill, quill and parchment – Harold’s aunts and grandmother were insufferably stuck in the old ways. They even gave him an old man name hoping it would mean he too would be stuck in the old ways. Harold preferred a pen and paper, and could even handle using a fountain pen, but he could only take things so far. He had tried a typewriter and even a laptop, but he had found those to be awkward and more tedious than expected, not that he would admit that to the family matriarchy.

“The old ways are the best ways” was a favorite catchphrase of Harold’s grandmother. She had taught him everything he needed to know about dream catching and memory extraction. She had given him a quill and parchment set when he turned twelve, and he still used them on occasion, usually quite publicly and always when in her presence.

Approaching midlife, Harold was more willing to admit that actually writing something down did seem to be much more potent and powerful than just typing it. Perhaps that was because hand writing something took more time. Or because it was unique and one of a kind. He wasn’t sure. And was not so inclined to investigate nor did he know how he would go about investigating that if he were so inclined. Perhaps there was some truth to her words regarding the old ways and knowing a thing or two about what was and wasn’t best. But Harold wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that he even considered such things. They were all stubborn and arrogant and stuck in their ways and he wasn’t about to concede anything that would be taken as a sign of weakness.

His grandmother Ester was wildly superstitious. His other grandmother, Ethel was as well, but she was no longer alive, so Harold didn’t have to worry as much about her fears and idiosyncratic traditions.

Harold kept a notebook where he wrote down the failed dreams and painful memories of those that were willing to pay him to do so. He wasn’t a therapist, but the people that came to him, came for a form of help. It was a bit like confession – admit something and the sinner instantly felt a little bit better about the sin. That’s what Harold was in a way – someone to listen and offer some form of absolution without any judgment. That wasn’t really what was happening, and Harold certainly had plenty of judgments, but he kept them to himself and never felt like correcting those that came to him.

Harold wrote down what they told him in a confessions journal and in that act, took away the power of what was written down and put that power into the paper. It was really just a simple transference spell, but usually it was hard for people to believe in magic, so it was easier if they just thought it was therapy of some sort. With the power taken away, the person always felt relief. They didn’t always feel better, but they did feel relief. Harold never made promises that he would make them happy. That would have been impossible, but that was what most people were really coming for. But Harold tried to give them what little he could. What he gave them was a dull feeling and a foggy memory. Really it was a little like being sedated or having alcoholic brownouts. But Harold gave them what they wanted.

Harold had a few notebooks full of takes of broken dreams and the crushed human spirit. He had a few notebooks of confessions, but those weren’t nearly as interesting or as powerful. Something about failure and loss was so much stronger than just sin and evil deeds. Perhaps this was because regrets can break a person while the sinner or evil person usually enjoys the deed on some level and has less remorse. The broken are always sadder than the damned.

Each member of the family collected and kept the volumes of confessions. He was always told there was great power in those pages, but he was never quite sure why they were collecting them. No one in his family ever seemed to do anything with what they wrote. But he was sure someone must have a use or else they wouldn’t be doing it. He had been told that collecting negative energy would allow it to be recycled into positive energy. So far in his life he had seen no evidence to this effect. The world he saw hadn’t gotten any better and the people never seemed any happier. But when he pointed this out, his grandmother always told him he was young and to be patient.

Harold had been warned not to write any of his own thoughts down. That was one thing he had specifically and repeatedly been warned against. Their family job was not to absolve themselves; it was to collect that spiritual energy from others. He had been told the results would be disastrous. He had been warned.

Harold had grown to hate the process. He found the people depressing and their stories to be obnoxious and nauseating. All he felt was disgust and a growing hatred for his fellow man. He wanted to forget. So he wrote things down, and forgot he did. He forgot everything. And everything soon forgot him.