Free Unsoul'd by Barry Lyga Page A

condition to be enjoyed by anyone.
    But that day, sitting in Construct, fueled by bottled water and coffee and bagels and chocolate... That day, I somehow wrote ten thousand words .
    And they were good words. Scanning over them quickly, I found myself absorbed in my own writing in a way that -- in all honesty -- rarely if ever happened. I had literally just written these words and yet I couldn't get enough of them, reading them over and over again.
    Something had clicked. The dam had been burst. Whichever pathetic, overused cliché you prefer, go ahead and use it -- I was free. The blockages that had kept me from working on this book for so long had dissolved.
    Normally, I would call a ten thousand word day a good one and give myself the evening off. Instead, I ordered up some dinner and hit the keyboard again.
    The day topped out at close to seventeen thousand words.
    Good ones.

Wherein I Speak to My Father  
    Maybe it was some sort of karmic balance for a good -- nay, extraordinary -- day at the keyboard, but that night, as I tossed my laptop bag onto the kitchen table and collapsed on the sofa, my father called.
    It's not that I mind speaking to my father. Or that I dislike him. It's just that we have nothing in common.
    My father has two loves in this world: professional hockey and masturbation. I'm not sure which one is more embarrassing. I guess the one he talks about the most.
    Which would be masturbation. My father will speak at fulsome length about the joys of onanism. He will discuss in intimate detail the distinctions between various lubes, ointments, salves, and gels. He discourses on the complex dexterity required to fast-forward and rewind porn without "missing a beat." Yes, he actually said "missing a beat." With no trace of irony, as best I could tell.
    My father has had three wives, including my mother. The last one had the decency to die before she could leave him like the first two. He lived down South, where it was warmer, and his continued existence was a sort of cautionary tale to me. When Fi had left, I'd been terrified that my future would roll out before me like my father's -- that I would be alone. Then Manda came along and dispelled that particular fear, though Dad's occasional phone calls served as reminders of how close to the abyss I had -- and still could -- come.
    Once his life became, by necessity, sexless, he re-discovered that very special joy usually reserved for adolescent boys clutching their first boners. The man is the founder and administrator of the Jocelyn Elders Fan Page on Facebook. I wish I were making this up, but I'm not.
    "Hi, Dad," I said.
    "How are you?" he asked.
    "I'm good." I stood up. I always felt the need to pace when talking to my father. "Busy."
    "Still writing books?"
    I thumped my head lightly against the wall. "Yeah, Dad. Still writing books." I'd been writing professionally and exclusively for five years. I had sent my father hardcover editions of all of my books. Somehow he didn't get it.
    "I was just calling to check in on you. See how you're doing."
    "I'm good," I said again, circumnavigating my tiny apartment.
    "Still not seeing that Fiona?"
    "Right, Dad. Still not seeing Fiona. I'm seeing Manda now."
    "That Fiona--" (for reasons I could never understand, Dad always called her "that Fiona") "--I don't mind telling you: She was one hot number. You did well there, I'll tell you."
    "Uh...thanks?"
    "I have to admit: I rubbed a few out thinking about her in that little denim skirt she wore that time I came out to visit."
    "Actually, that's something you really don't have to admit, Dad."
    I could almost hear his shrug. "I'm just saying. That Fiona was a hell of a little number."
    "I'm aware."
    "And you saw her naked!" He paused. "You did see her naked, right?"
    I looked around the apartment. There on the kitchen counter was my big carving knife. It would look good buried in my skull right about now, I thought. The idea that both my father and I had masturbated to