The novel that will never be

[Ghoulish Delight]

This is driving me nuts. I've had a vague idea for a novel in my head for years. I have no plot in mind, I have no characters. All I have is some vague philosophical themes that I think would be interesting to build a story around. I've gone through several abortive attempts to get started, but all I ever come up with are individual scenes, none of which relate to each other. I doubt I'll ever come up with anything more than that, but it's been fun to come up with these concepts and scenes, so when the idea for one nagged at me today, I thought I'd try to get it written and share it, for what it's worth. I don't know if I like this one or not, but whatever.

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Stopped at a red light, he puts the car in neutral to save those few pennies in gas. Radio on, he nods his head along to some song he's never heard, but definitely likes, hoping the DJ will name the tune for him. His head swivels from side to side, trying to observe the other drivers without them catching his eye because, of course, it's somehow rude to look at other people in their cars. Strange how everyone expects privacy in a box with windows on every side. Finding no one interesting in any of the neighboring cars, his eye wanders to the shops along the street. A record store, a coffee shop, a fast food chain, another coffee shop across the street (at least it's a different chain), a small travel agency...WHAM!!

He's shocked out of his absent minded survey of the street by what will shortly become the second most bizarre moment in his life. Sitting on his now severly dented hood, spattered with various engine fluids, steam and smoke from burning coolant rising up around it, is a large brown lump of wet clay. If this lump had been shaped into anything before rudely implanting itself in his engine compartment, the considerable force of the impact successfully shaped it back into a large brown lump.

He stares blankly, in shock, momentarily fascinated by the rising smoke trails. He might have sat there for an hour had the driver from one of the cars next to him not knocked on his window to make sure he was alright (apparantly a large brown lump of wet clay smashing into one's hood is a signal that you are allowed to acknowledge someone in their otherwise private realm of existance inside their car).

Recovering from the shock, he turns the ignition off (an unnecessary step when your hood's been dirven through your cylinder head by a large brown lump of wet clay), unbuckles his belt, opens his door, and begins to step out to survey the damage. Something stops him in his tracks, though. There's a piece of paper under his heel, and he's now staring in shock for the second time in the span of a few seconds. For him to be seeing that particular piece of paper there in the street with his shoe print on it was, in a word, impossible. What made this, seeing that single piece of paper, the most bizarre moment in his life (yes, more bizarre than a large brown lump of wet clay appearing from nowhwere to redesign his front end) was the fact just three days prior, he had been handed this exact piece of paper, complete with the shoe print he had just applied to it.