"Nick DiChario - Flyby Aliens" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dichario Nicholas A)

I have a friend named Kate who is an absolutely fabulous actor in New York City. She's done quite a bit of Shakespeare, among many other fine shows (I won't mention Charlie Brown). I have another friend, Rebecca, who is a topnotch stage manager, one of the best in the biz. She has worked on a number of big shows including one of which she's not too terribly fond: Saturday Night Fever. Whenever I'm in NYC, I visit with these wonderful folks, and we always have a grand old time sipping cheap wine, sampling fine cheese, and discussing art, literature, film, and theater. Somehow out of these slightly tipsy debates, Flyby Aliens arose.
Art and creativity are the aliens within us. Beautiful, frustrating, enlightening, difficult, joyous, painful...I like the idea that the entire artistic process is a B.E.M (bug-eyed-monster), sometimes helping us along, other times leaving us stranded and desperate. We're all strangers in a strange land when it comes to creativity, struggling to understand, never giving up or giving in, champions till the end. Rah! I guess that was the metaphor I was playing with underneath the surface of "Flyby Aliens," our sense of struggle to create something divine with the unique and inadequate voices in our own overwrought personal universes.

But to be honest, that's stretching things a bit. It's just a story, after all. And if you enjoy reading "Flyby Aliens" half as much as I enjoyed writing it, my efforts were worthwhile.

Writer Nick DiChario's short stories are published widely in magazines and anthologies. His short story, "Sarajevo," is a finalist for this year's Hugo Award. You can read more about Nick at: www.mysteryhouse.com


FLYBY ALIENS
by Nick DiChario

"Let's talk," Sally said to Max.

"Do we have to talk right now?" It was late. Max was in the middle of revisions for Act III of Flyby Aliens, the pages strewn across his side of the bed.

Sally sat on the mattress in her terrycloth bathrobe. Her dark gray hair settled damply against the pale sienna color of her skin. She tucked up her knees, and Max could smell the sea-spray bath oil lingering on her skin. "I think it's time you wrapped up that play, Max. You've been obsessing over it for five years."

"Four years. I started writing it the day I retired. I thought you liked the play."

"I do. I love it. But three years rewriting -- "

"Two. I just can't stick the climax. Why does Melinda have to leave Eddy?
No matter how many times I rewrite the final scene, it just doesn't sound honest."

"Maybe you should turn on the TV and rest your brain for a night."

Max tugged on his pajama bottoms and repositioned the lumbar pillow to the small of his back. He couldn't sit still for too long. Sometimes his sciatic nerve made him see stars, even if his play didn't. "If I turn on the TV, you won't fall asleep, and tomorrow you'll blame me for the dark circles under your eyes."

Sally kicked off her slippers. "How long have we been married?"

"Twenty-five years."

"What if I told you it was over -- the marriage. I'm leaving. What would you say?"

"I'd tell you not to be so melodramatic. Melodrama kills." Max looked for the page where the alien ships came down and hovered over New York City. In his play, the aliens never actually landed on Earth. Sally had proposed that change early on, in his third or fourth draft. Max knew she was right as soon as he'd heard it. More than just a clever twist, an alien visitation where the aliens never reveal themselves, where they just fly by, teasing us, leaving us frustrated and confused, was a metaphor for Man's own frustrated journeys through time and space and, well, life. He reached for his coffee cup on the nightstand, but the cup was empty.

Sally patted her hair with a dry towel and leaned back against her pillows.

"What if I told you that talking or not talking wouldn't make a difference. I'm leaving. The talking is for your sake, not mine."

Max tried to figure if Sally was serious or just projecting. She was not normally prone to theatrical displays of emotion, but she was fond of daytime TV. She might be operating under some crazy gab-show pop psychology theory: 'Today on Get A Life, Why Your Perfectly Good Twenty-Five-Year Marriage is Bad for You!'

Max decided to laugh it off. "Come on. We've got a great relationship. We talk. We share. We like the same radio station. We vote for the same lousy politicians. We even go to the grocery store together. Not bad after twenty-five years of marriage." He didn't mention their lack of children or lack of sex; they'd tried hard at one and had quit trying altogether at the other. But you couldn't live a long time with a person and not suffer a setback or two. Struggles brought people closer together, Max had always believed. "Besides," he added, "what would I do without your help on my play?"

"Maxy, you need to finish the play. What are you going to do, fiddle with it forever?"

Max shrugged. Why not? If he never officially finished it, the play could never officially be rejected.

Sally found the remote, clicked on the television, and turned up the sound. Max thought about moving to the kitchen to continue his tireless efforts, but an Asian anchorwoman appeared on-screen and said: