Graham Cox stared at the poster in the shop window with interest. His local mini-market and the chip-shop next door always had their windows full of leaflets and posters. Graham would often have a look what was being advertised and promoted this week. It could be anything from somebody selling an exercise bike they never use, to a Karate expert setting up a Dojo on Thursday evenings in the church hall. 

He took out his mobile phone and took a photo of the poster. It was definitely something to think about. You could never have too many hobbies. His friends laughed at him for his varied interests, but you had to do what made you happy. Who knew, this latest fad could be the one that he stuck with. He had to admit he did have a habit of getting completely obsesses with an interest, only to drop it a few weeks later once the novelty had worn off. 

In the past he had tried horse-riding, Wing Chun Kung Fu, even skate-boarding despite being double the age of the twelve year old kids on the skate-park. These days he busied himself writing short stories, playing snooker in his local club and did Tai Chi on a Tuesday night at the local leisure centre. 

But now there could be another contender for his free-time. Archery. He said the word over and over to himself. The guy on the poster was wielding the bow, arrow drawn, like he was the hero of Sherwood Forest.

‘Archery?’ his friend Andy laughed, almost choking on his pint of lager. 

‘It looks really cool. Look.’ Graham said, holding out his mobile phone.

Andy glanced at the picture on screen shaking his head.

‘The last thing you need is another fad, Graham.’

‘But the archery club sounds brilliant. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at archery.’ Graham said.

‘Oh yeah? Since when?’

Graham looked longingly at the poster for a moment before he replied.

‘Looks very cool, though.’ 

‘Let’s see how long you stick with this. I give it a fortnight.’ Andy said.

The poster for the archery club said anyone interested in joining should come along to the Saturday morning beginners’ session. Graham decided to try it out despite the mocking of his friends. His parents had laughed hysterically at the thought of their awkward eldest son picking up a bow and arrow. 

Graham was determined to give it a go. If it wasn’t fun, or was ridiculously difficult, then he wouldn’t go back. If he enjoyed it or if by some miracle, he was a natural archer, then was sure he would go back for another session. 

On the Saturday morning Graham stopped off on his way to the archery group. He called at a greasy spoon café for a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich. A stodgy bit of breakfast would set him up nicely. He found a free table and a few minutes later the guy behind the counter in the dirty apron, came over with his brew and his breakfast. 

As he was sipping his tea and eating his bacon butty a figure took the seat facing him. Graham stared in complete puzzlement. Was he seeing things? He must be hallucinating.

The figure simply stared back at him. Graham took a sip of tea, before closing his eyes tight and counting to ten. Then he sighed and slowly opened his eyes. 

The figure was still there, and still staring at him. This just couldn’t be happening.

Sitting across from him, wearing three-piece suit was a fox. The fox was the size of a grown man, and was as tall as Graham. 

‘Hey, how you doing?’ the fox asked, in a thick New York accent.

Graham couldn’t find the words to respond.

‘You don’t remember me do you?’ the fox asked.

Graham shook his head then spoke.

‘I think I’d remember if I’d seen a six-foot talking fox from the Bronx.’ Graham said. 

‘I’m from Hoboken, New Jersey, but that’s beside the point. You and I used to hang out when you were a kid.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, we’d come up with all these wacky stories. You’d write it all down. We’d make up these great tales, pages and pages of strange stories. You remember that, dontcha?’ The fox asked.

‘I did used to write lots of stories when I was a little kid.’ Graham agreed. 

‘And I used to help. We would come up with these amazing stories where anything could happen.’

As the fox was speaking, Graham did recall that he had written a spate of stories as a kid, alongside his imaginary friend. And that imaginary friend had been, of all things, a fox in a suit with a New Jersey accent. The more he thought about it, the more the image came back to him. How could it be that his childhood imaginary friend was now back? And what was his name? Then it came to him.

‘Teddy?’ Graham said, his voice a whisper. 

‘That’s me.’ The fox laughed. ‘Your old pal, Teddy Zorro.’

‘But how is this even happening? You’re not real.’ He snapped.

Graham shook his head. He downed the last of his tea, and grabbed his sandwich. He charged out onto the high street.

As he marched down the pavement, chewing on his sandwich, he felt a presence beside him. Walking alongside him, completely in time with Graham’s steps was the fox.

‘You’re right to hurry, G-Man. We’ve got work to do.’

Graham turned and stared. The nick-name G-Man had been something from his childhood. And yes, now that he thought about it, the name had been something that his imaginary friend had called him. Everything came flooding back to him. 

He recalled he and Teddy had come up with these amazing stories. With his imaginary friend, Graham had managed to write some out-there tales. His parents and his teachers had been really impressed with his imagination. Full of spelling mistakes, though, his father had said with a wry smile.

His writing hobby had stayed with him into adulthood. Where other kids would grow out of crafts like writing or drawing, Graham never did leave the hobby of writing behind. Long after he had out-grown his imaginary friend, and Teddy had become a thing of the past, he had stuck with his story-writing. 

Even today, he would rattle off stories in a couple of hours. Ideas would flood to his over-active imagination. He would scribble down these scraps of ideas and then eventually get around to writing the full story. 

And now, years later, Teddy Zorro, the fox in the suit himself, was standing on the pavement next to him. 

Did this happen often? Graham wondered. Did a lot of people encounter their childhood imaginary friends when they were adults? He hadn’t heard anyone mention it. Childhood imaginary friends were a thing, these characters reappearing in adulthood, was not. 

Something came to mind, like a reminder popping up on his mobile phone. He had a class to get to.

‘I can’t do this today, Teddy.’ Graham said. ‘Maybe tomorrow we’ll have a catch-up.’ 

‘What is so important? Tell me.’ Teddy said, a sudden menace in his voice.

‘I have an archery class.’

‘You gotta be kidding me.’ Teddy scoffed. ‘Archery?’ 

‘It’s actually my new hobby.’

Teddy shook his head, his animal whiskers twitching, he jabbed a paw at Graham.

‘You got a natural gift for story-telling, and you want to take up archery? Have you lost your mind?’ Teddy asked.

‘I’m talking to an imaginary fox who sounds like Tony Soprano. Have I lost my mind? Quite possibly.’

Graham turned and stormed away down the street. This was not the way he had expected this morning to go. He had expected to go along to the archery club and try his hand at the potential new hobby. And yet, here he was, arguing in the street with a fictional character. 

He looked around and sighed in relief. He was alone. Teddy was gone. What a morning, he chunnered to himself. Should he still aim for the archery club? Nah, the moment was gone. He wasn’t really in the mood. The incident, his seeing the hallucination, was really worrying him.

Feeling less jubilant than when he had left home, Graham headed back home. He needed another cup of tea and maybe a lie down. An hour in bed would sort him out. A nap, or a kip as they called it in the North West. Yes, a kip would do him the world of good.

By the time he woke up, early afternoon, the strange incidents of the morning had taken on a dream-like quality in his mind. He must have imagined the whole thing. Maybe he had been half asleep. 

That afternoon he flaked out on the sofa, drinking cups of tea, and watched rubbish television, flicking through the channels. He was just getting engrossed in a black and white spy film when a voice disturbed him.

‘Is this really how you’re gonna waste your afternoon?’ 

Graham turned to see Teddy standing there. The fox looked so out of place in his living room. It was as though his dreams, his imagination, had burst into the real world. Graham’s head hurt from it all. Before he knew it, he found himself arguing with the figure.

‘It’s a classic movie. One of the best films of all time.’ Graham said.

‘You need to stop this.’ Teddy said.

‘What are you talking about?’ Graham asked.

‘All this, the rubbish TV, the archery, the martial arts. You need to stop this.’

‘Alright, then, what should I be doing?’

‘You should be writing. Forget about trying to follow the football, or learning to play the violin, or whatever. Writing is the thing, always has been.’

‘Surely, it’s good to have different interests.’ Graham said.

‘You know what they say, if you try and catch two critters at the same time, you’ll catch none.’

Graham said nothing, wondering once again if he had lost his mind. But, he had to admit, Teddy had a point. Maybe he was spreading himself too thin. 

‘You are a writer. That’s your craft. That buzz of reading back a few lines of your work, and thinking, I wrote this.’ Teddy insisted.

Graham nodded in agreement, a bemused smile on his face. He was unsure exactly why he was seeing this figure again but there was no denying that the fox had a point.

In fact, Teddy was so right. Graham snatched up the remote control and flicked the TV set off. Teddy pointed an orange-red paw, his foxish features smiling, his brushy tail wagging. 

‘The G-Man is back!’ Teddy said.

Graham was unsure if foxes howled or not but he wondered for a moment, if his imaginary friend was about to howl the house down. Teddy straightened his tie and adjusted his cuffs with his paws and nodded.

‘We’ve got work to do.’ Teddy said. 

Graham grabbed a fresh note-pad and pen and set himself up on the kitchen table. Teddy paced the kitchen like a lawyer speaking to a jury.

‘What’s our story going to be about?’ Graham asked, rubbing his jaw. 

‘I’m not thinking a short story this time, G-Man.’ Teddy said.

‘If not a story, then what? Poetry? I mean, I’ll have a go.’ Graham shrugged.

‘I’m think we should write a novel.’ Teddy said.

Graham sighed, wow, a novel. The rarest of creatures, to him, the holy grail of writing. The novel. Surely a novel was a leap to far. That was like deciding to run the London Marathon after running five kilometres. A novel would take hard work and dedication. It would take planning and time and concentration. It would be the writing equivalent of a university degree. How on earth would he find the time for that?

Teddy’s words came back to him. You need to stop this. Indeed, if he scrapped the idea of being a snooker player, an archery champion, of learning a musical instrument, if he just knuckled down and focused, then yeah, of course he’d be able to write a novel. Why not? What was stopping him?

The more he thought it through, regardless of how all this was happening, of how Teddy had suddenly come back, the fact was, he was spreading himself too thin. He did take on random hobbies and past-times, before moving straight on to the next, when the novelty wore off. Each new fad was the best, and could be the one. And yet, each new hobby grew dull and boring, apart from the stories. He always snatched the odd minute here and there to write a story. Imagine what he could achieve if he actually put the work in. He nodded to himself. Sure, he could write a novel. I mean, he thought, what was a novel, if not a series of short stories threaded together.

‘I can’t quite believe any of this is happening, but yeah, let’s do this. We are going to write a novel.’ Graham said. 

That was it. The decision had been made. Graham would discard all his other random hobbies and concentrate completely on his writing. He didn’t need another past-time, he just needed to dedicate his free-time to his writing. And in doing so, he should be able to put together something resembling a novel. 

And so it began. Graham and Teddy spent any spare moment he had working on the novel. He missed nights out with friends, dropped out of the darts team and the snooker club. He told his family and his friends he was attempting to write a novel. Most of them gave a polite smile. He knew what they were thinking. The novel was his latest fad. He would no doubt shortly discard the idea of writing a novel and take up some other pursuit. Maybe he’d try fencing next. 

But, he didn’t tell anyone about Teddy. His friends and family had him down as quite the eccentric as it was. If he told them that his childhood imaginary friend had come to him and told him to focus on his writing, and that he should write a novel, they would think he was crazy. If they knew that Teddy was helping him put the book together, then they’d certainly be concerned for his mental well-being. 

All Graham knew was that everything suddenly seemed to make sense. He no longer felt like he was drifting and aimless, searching for something to give his life a purpose. He was an aspiring writer working on his debut novel regardless of the rather strange details concerning a six-foot tall talking fox from New Jersey. 

A few months later, at the office during his mundane, 9-5 job, one of his colleagues asked what his plans were for the evening. Normally at work, Graham told his work-mates as little as possible. He didn’t really seem them as close friends. He was friendly and polite but didn’t consider any of them as real friends. He replied to his colleague’s question without thinking. He explained how that evening he would be working on the novel he was writing. As soon as he’d spoken he regretted it. Creative writing was hardly a common hobby. Once word got out at the office he would be seen as even more nerdy than he was already. Rather than ridicule, his colleague smiled.

‘That’s cool.’ she said. ‘One of my friends works at a publishers in the city. When you’re done, I could see if she’ll have a look, if you like.’ 

‘Yeah, that would be great. It’d make my day if a publisher read it, never mind if they like it or not.’ Graham replied. 

That evening, he and Teddy worked even harder on the novel. It was just delightful to see the book taking shape and becoming crafted and shaped into something resembling a novel. And, thanks to his colleague, a publisher would be reading it when he was done. Nothing more may come of it, but how many people could say they’ve written a novel and sent to a publisher? That in itself was quite the achievement. 

He and Teddy worked hard and they worked well together. Of course with Teddy being a figment of his imagination, he and the fox were on literally the same page, as they thrashed out ideas, plot twists and red-herrings, while Graham scribbled away on notepads before typing up on his laptop. 

The months went by and Graham’s concentration intensified. He would work late into the night typing away, while talking things over with Teddy, the fox pacing the kitchen behind him.

Just after one o’clock in the morning, with Teddy pacing behind him, Graham typed away furiously. He finally typed The End. They had done it. The first draft of his debut novel was complete. Graham punched the air, tears in his eyes. 

‘We did it!’ He cried.

He turned to Teddy behind him. Graham stared in confusion. He was alone. He called out for the fox but there was no response. The fox was gone. 

An hour later he sipped a celebratory whiskey staring at the laptop screen, thrilled that the novel was complete, but yet sad that it would appear he had seen the last of Teddy. Maybe his mind had conjured up the imaginary figure as a way of processing his thoughts, of collecting and gathering himself and finally producing something worth-while. 

Twelve months later his book was published. Graham often thought of Teddy and how his childhood imaginary friend had briefly returned to help him put the novel together. Whenever he walked in a room, he still half expected to see the fox in the suit. Maybe Teddy had left him because his mission was complete. The work was done.

Graham knew there would be more books, more writing, and more novels to follow. He had the bug now. Writing had become like breathing. It was something he did automatically. All he had really needed was Teddy to tell him to stop wasting his time and focus. 

For the book launch, the book shop was busy with readers, including friends and family. Those who knew him were still in disbelief that he had actually stuck with the novel idea long enough to get the work completed. His parents commented that they had never seen their son so dedicated to something. 

After Graham had read an excerpt from his novel and explained where his ideas came from, the host asked if anyone had any questions for the author. Graham felt his cheeks burn red. The author? That was him. 

The first question was from a guy in the front row. 

‘The book is dedicated to Teddy. If it’s not a personal question, would you tell us who Teddy is.’ He asked.

Graham smiled. Where did he start?

At that moment he spotted a figure at the back of the room. He saw the familiar orange-red ears above the heads of the crowd.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom