In ‘Snapshots’ by Leo X Robertson, a father’s grief leads to a son’s identity crisis. Enjoy this excerpt from Pulp Literature Issue 22 as we continue our look back at the stories that captivated us in 2019.
SnapShots
by Leo X Robertson
Dedicated to my dad, Charlie Robertson (1954 – 2018)
When Dad arrives, he twiddles a dial in the panel, and SnapRoom gets brighter.
He’s wearing the same slacks and mustard-coloured cardigan that I expect Mum to have thrown out by now. His face is hollow, eyes empty. Strings of white hair fall from the ring of still-functioning follicles on his head. The white whiskers on his face give his skin a greyish hue.
I’ve never seen him look so old. Best not to mention it.
The SnapShots adjust to the new light. The bluish glow of Five, Fifteen, Nineteen, and Twenty-One makes each a petal in a ghostly peony at the room’s centre.
“Cheers,” I say. “I was too scared to touch anything.”
There are basic options on the panel, like lighting, EQ, mute, reverse, record, and so on — but also more serious-sounding options: delete, modify, enhance. I almost pressed reset memory, thinking it was the light switch — which would’ve erased everything the SnapShots had learned since their creation.
Five runs to Dad for a hug. “Daddy!” He giggles as his hands run through Dad’s legs with a buzz. Holes, like dead pixels, pock-mark his blocky hologram all over, from the bowl cut down to the dungarees.
“What took you so long?” I say.
Dad pretends to pat Five’s head, his hand going straight through, fingertips lighting up in blue. There’s a resting tremor in his hands. I’ve had those before, from anti-depressants and hangovers. Neither are topics I broach easily. I hope Dad’s shakes are something else.
“Some new customers wanted to book golfing lessons,” he says. “It takes a while to register them in the system.” He walks to the TV monitors embedded in the wall and turns them on. They display CCTV footage of his golf course up above us. Golden light spreads over the greens. There’s a white cart by the ninth hole, where I parked not minutes ago. “What were you guys talking about before I showed up?”
“Tell him what was on your mind, Twenty-Five,” Fifteen says to me, rolling up the sleeves of his school shirt.
I let them call me Twenty-Five so they don’t feel excluded.
“I need your advice, Dad,” I say. “I’ve been seeing Flossy for a few years. She’s itching for me to propose.”
I’d never known a ‘Flossy’ before I met her in the bank one evening. She squeezed rain from her ebullient mop of pink hair and screamed at a camera that she wasn’t leaving before speaking to a human. In a cringeworthy but effective move, I said that if she was looking for human connection, we should go for a drink instead of waiting longer in that forgotten, sterile cubicle. In my office daydreams of her, a shimmering ream of gossamer floss surrounds her. She’s my Flossy by name and nature.
“That’s how it usually goes, Twenty-Five,” Dad says. “Your mother and I got married at your age.” He giggles. “The most wonderful decision I ever made! Until we had you, Son.” He points at me, finger wobbling. “Grandkids! They’ll follow soon enough.”
“One thing at a time!” I say.
“A dad can dream. You’ll bring Flossy next time, won’t you?”
He used to complain that I wasn’t visiting enough. Now I’m here so often it feels like I never leave, so he guilts me about not bringing Flossy. It’s always something.
To find out what happens next, pick up your copy of Issue 22, Spring 2019 here!
Leo X Robertson is a Scottish process engineer and writer, currently living in Oslo, Norway. He has work published in Helios Quarterly, Expanded Horizons, Unnerving Magazine, and others. Find him on Twitter @Leoxwrite or check out his website: leoxrobertson.wordpress.com.
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