The Writer

I read his stories in a university magazine. Now years later I can't even remember the titles. What I do recall was an unnerving humour, unpredictably odd characters emerging from a kind of mist and plot lines which took you up badly illuminated stairways and passages. Occasionally there might be a tiny window through which you could catch a glimpse of a world outside. I recall a small faraway town on a hill. You felt you could explore this world on your own terms if only you could see. There was something exasperating about his stories as if they were leading to a punchline which never came. What was the writer's name? Peter. That much I remember. There was a time I tried to find him online but he seemed to have disappeared. He did have such a common name he would be difficult to trace. Thirty years ago I left a message in his college pigeonhole, suggesting a time and place to meet. I didn't know what to expect but waited in my room in the hall of residence. I heard footsteps on the stairs but then silence. I wasn't sure if it was him at all but whoever it was never got as far as my door. A couple of years ago I went back to the university town and it struck me to visit the library to look up the story. The magazine had been removed from the shelves and following enquiries I discovered no archives were in existence. I still look for him infrequently on the internet searching his name with half remembered phrases I recall from his stories.