Barry Blackmore has been an active member of the New Writers E-mail List almost since its beginning. He is often the first to send out a hearty welcome to new members as they join the group. He submits his own work for critique and provides thoughtful critique of others’ work, motivating them in the pursuits of their goal to be a writer. His participation has been an encouragement to the co-moderators and other members of the List.
In addition to this, Barry just happens to be one of the more talented writers on the New Writers’ List. His submissions, from poetry to prose, have been in a variety of genres. He has made us laugh, cry, dream, and sigh with his writings. It is no surprise that he has been selected as the New Writers’ first Featured Writer of the Month.
New Writers' Interview with Barry
How Do You Find Time To Write?
I'm a security guard. Long boring nightshifts. The question should be: how do I find the time NOT to write? There's always something more important to do. . . like staring out the window, throwing sticks for the dogs, or counting the tiles on the floor. . .
How Long Have You Been Writing?
About 12 years if you count a 10 year lay-off. True, unfortunately.
When Did You First Know that You Wanted To Write, and Was There Any Particular Person Or Thing That Inspired You To Be A Writer?
Difficult one. I guess I've always wanted to be able to write, but I think I dislike writing. When I was 19 I worked as an electronics tech. There was a young apprentice who was trying to get out with a pretty girl who lived just down the road. Anyway, one day he wrote a letter to her: he read it out to me. It was terrible. "Take dictation." I told him - more as a joke than anything else. But he wrote down all of the romantic cliches I came up with. And he gave it to her. The effect really was awesome. "Write another for me, please?" he’d literally beg. Then he'd make copies of these and give them to different girls. The guy almost became a legend. He'd bring letters from them for me to answer. But I didn't have to read many to realise what a dangerous, even cruel, game I was playing. So I stopped. There's poetic justice here though: I fell for the pretty girl down the road, but lacking his guts, it was unrequited.
Who Are Some Of Your Favorite Authors? Why?
Mmmm.. I stopped reading for even longer than I stopped writing. Now, books seem to be so damned expensive! I was attracted to the dark world of Poe when in my teens. I like war, mystery, and thrillers. LORD OF THE RINGS blew my mind. And I was always sad to reach the end of a Steinbeck. Was it Luke Reinhart who wrote The DICE MAN? Loved that. Oh, yea, THE CHOIRBOYS - Wambaugh. Asimov. And it's always worth wading through a Stephen King for the moments of sheer genius: it might be in the mind of a dog, or a twilit porch with an old man and a little boy on a swing. If he'd been less prolific and confined himself to general fiction, he'd now be hailed as THE Great American author. As it is, he now seems to be getting the credit he deserves. 'Bout time!
What Are Your Goals as A Writer?
I've said elsewhere that I consider myself a half-novelist. Hence my ambition, to finish both halves of the same novel.
What Do You Most Enjoy Writing? Why?
Heavy emotions. If you can feel the emotion your characters will write the scene for you. You just listen and type.
What Do You Find Most Difficult to Write? Why?
Niceness. Normality. Everyday life. I tend to panic and pray for a nuclear winter.
"Hello, old girl" he smiled. "Morning, Father." "Topping day, isn't it?" "I'll say. Could be rain later, though." "I say, could you pass the sugar please?" "My pleasure, my sweet. Toast?" "Oh, dear..!" "What..?" "Isn't that a thermo-nuclear missile headed our way?!" "AAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"
What Do Your Friends and Family Think about You Being A Writer? They'd think a hell of a lot more if I showed ‘em a check!
What Kind Of Advice Would You Offer A New Writer? Join a writer's group. Use the workshops on the Internet. Accept all the advice offered with good grace, whether you agree or not. Never crit a crit, - you might not get another one. Try reading aloud what you've written, especially the dialogue. Act the parts. If they're angry, then you should be too. If you can act your characters, then you just might get under their skins. Before rewriting put your story aside for a week - or month: errors should then be more obvious, and the task of cutting all that 'purple prose' should be less painful. Don't throw the 'purples' away though; open a file, just for them. They might fit somewhere else, some when else. Above all, do what I can't do: write, write and write some more.
This was Barry's first story posted to Short Story Workshop. It was received very well and recently earned him a Golden Quill.
THE HOME FRONT
2200 words
PG-17 Language
The night filled Sara's room like black ice. She clutched at the bedclothes, her gnarled fingers cold against her cheeks. Dear God, what had she heard? She tried not to panic. How could she still feel panic when fear had been a way of life for so long? Desperately, in her head, she began to recite, "Mary had a little lamb.." attempting to swamp her mind with childishness, "..whose fleece was white as snow.." to pacify her old heart. The internal struggle was so great that the initial disturbance became a side issue. To move would be to lose whatever race her heart was involved in, and she'd die. "..and everywhere that Mary went.." Suddenly there it was again; a thud from the living room, "..the lamb was sure to go. Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree-tops.." Over and over, reciting the foundation stones of her life until their insistence began to pacify her.
And then she thought she could move. There was a rustle of paper as she pushed the bedclothes from her face. That night she'd wrapped herself in the newspapers found on the bus-stop seat the previous afternoon. Such a wonderful find. But, Dear God, it was still so cold! It must be gale-force outside. The wind-blast pulled at her hair and the damp aftermath of panic penetrated her eyes like needles. She blinked and wiped her face in the blanket.
She now knew what had disturbed her, though. It wasn't them! It wasn't them.. thank God! It was just the front door. The gale had forced it. So no need to panic.. no need to panic.. just go to the door and close it.. that's all.. just close the door. She almost chuckled with relief. Now all she had to do was try not to freeze to death. If only she could have repaired the broken window, but that would have annoyed them, incited them to break it again.. and something else.. just to teach her a lesson.
She pushed back the bedclothes fully and forced her legs off the edge of the bed. She wished she had some way of telling the time, remembering fondly her old clock/radio. The all night broadcasts had become her friends; and the tv too. Oh, how she missed them. But they'd stolen everything, or smashed it. And they'd laughed at her old memories, her cherished photos of her loved ones, scattering them like confetti from the fourth floor balcony, threatening she'd follow if she didn't stop her moaning. But it was war wasn't it? A kind of war anyway.
She'd lived through the two great wars, and thanked God she'd had no sons. As it was, her husband, her beloved Bert, had gone to hell in the first. A miner, he hadn't had to go, but as the casualties mounted, he'd felt compelled to enlist.
He'd been gassed and was never the same again. A strong proud man, who'd done his best for his family, even when periodically his skin erupted in blisters and his lungs became open sores. Then he'd sit, still and silent in his chair. But when an old abandoned pit-shaft ingested the life of their little girl, he'd sat in his chair and he'd died.
After claiming - as the old Welsh miners did - that they went down the pit so their children wouldn't have to, the irony of her death destroyed his sense of natural justice. That he, in his duty to provide, had inadvertently created the means of her destruction, was too much to bear.
Sara survived, sustained by the rallied community, but in time that too had perished.
She edged her bottom forward then reached out for the back of the chair - they'd burnt her stick, not because of the cold.. just for fun. Actually, the chair was better, more stable. With a monstrous effort she managed to push herself to her feet. Today though, she had something for them: her pension. That would make them happier, less likely to want to hurt her.
Leaning on the wind funnelling through the hall, she couldn't help noticing the freshness of the enraged air. The usual stink of urine snatched away before it could cause offence. Not that she smelled any better she acknowledged with deep shame.
Again the thud as she entered the living room. Then she could see the street lights intermittently through the open door. It swung violently on the blizzard hurling snow into the room. They'd smashed the lock long ago, angered when she wouldn't let them in. Then they'd re-educated her. Forcing her to strip, burning her with their cigarettes, forcing her to stand in the fearful cold from the open door and laughing at her pathetic attempts to cover herself. Cruelly pointing in disgust at her flaws.
Eventually they'd allowed her to use a piece of doubled cardboard to wedge the door shut: just as long as they could kick it open whenever they wished entry.
The door thudded against the stop as she reached it. Blindly she scrambled around on the floor searching for the cardboard wedge, but she knew it was pointless, because even if found, there was no way it would secure the door against such a gale. She continued anyway, not knowing what else to do: her brain refusing to function.
Just then something fluttered through the door and landed right in front of where she knelt. She stopped, looked at it without understanding. It was a picture, a snap, then suddenly the moon came out and she could really see it. The full face was blurred, but that naughty grin was unmistakable. She raised her hand quickly to her mouth to restrain a sob. "Oh, Bert..". She reached out to take up the picture, but her hands were numb, useless, the snap unattainably flat. She sobbed with frustration, pawing ineffectually. Then she put both hands to her face and grieved for this Bert, this carefree Bert, before his soul was usurped by mustard gas, and for herself before her soul was usurped by bitterness.
Cherished memories of times she could hug to her breast welled in her. "Coal pays the wages," he used to say, "but the day I found you, my luvly, was the day I struck gold!" She remembered the pink-rimmed eyes and lips in his shift-end, coal-black face. He'd strip in front of the hearth while she'd coyly, with surreptitious eyes, fill the tin bath. Then she'd wash him - brazen like a hussy--scrubbing at the ingrained dirt that hid her man and yet was so much part of him; that smell of good earth and honest toil. And finally when he rose before her, his lean hard body glowing, flickering like flame, he'd laugh and reach for her and she'd evade him, dashing away as always: and as always he'd hang his towel in a very naughty place and pursue her like an animated marquee. Oh, he'd been so rude, and she'd tell him so.. but such an innocent.. oh, such a wonderfully rough innocent in innocent times. So she'd giggle at his naughtiness and she'd hold tight to the fresh damp carbolic essence of him, and then they'd love one another, and when they did, their small home in a tiny miner's row, in a drizzle of a Welsh town, became heaven.
Such times, such God-blessed times.
Suddenly the wind screamed and snatched at the photograph, flipping it into her lap. With a speed of reaction that surprised her, she trapped it with a bloodless hand, realizing that she could probably manoeuvre it now, bend it, make a wedge with which to secure the door.. but no, not even if her hands were young and vital with blood, would she consider it. Instead she touched arthritic fingers to her lips and transferred a kiss to his lovely face. Then with massive determination she forced herself to her feet. She'd fetch the chair from the bedroom and use that to jam the door shut. It would be OK as long as she removed it before they got there.
In the bedroom she managed to drop the photograph near her pillow, then she pushed her arm through the back of the chair and lifted it. The weight surprised her; where was her strength? Her heart fluttered like a damaged bird, and her breathing was ragged. But what frightened her most of all was the realization that she was not shivering any more. Whatever that meant she knew it wasn't good.
When she reached the living room she staggered to the door, pushed it shut, and angled the chair until it caught under the broken lock. Gradually the air stilled. She leaned against the wall, gasping with the effort. So tired. Her legs trembling with exertion, and her head hissed red-black behind her eyes. She knew she was going to faint. Fearing a heavy fall she allowed herself to sink to the floor. So desperately tired, so weak, her eyes.. so heavy.. she couldn't....
*****************
Noise...
Distant shouts...
She opened her eyes and daylight screamed at her, mocked her, taunted her. Oh, God! How long..?! She flopped her head to the side to see the chair still barring entry.. No! But she had time.. surely she still had time.. if only she could move. She tried so hard. In her head she was there tugging, kicking the chair away, throwing the door wide, showing them how she respected their threats...
But she couldn't move... at all.
Paralyzed.
Trapped.
But not cold anymore! Or perhaps she was too cold - the snow that had entered before she barred the door was still there. But she felt unmoved by it, as it remained untouched by her, unmelted, even where it touched her flesh.
And then she smiled...
Was she going crazy?
She was warm! Snug!
Carefree.
The sun's radiance was with her. Just there, across the room. A golden light!
(Outside, the noises came ever closer, raised voices, feet running.)
The light grew brighter, expanding like... sanctuary?
(Obscene language from obscene mouths approached the door.)
But she felt only peace. And then, there in the light, was a figure. Indistinct but definitely a human form.
(The door creaked as someone pushed at it. Then silence.)
But she knew that stance... And then there he was, just as he'd been before that terrible war.
(Thuds at the door, kicks.)
He was smiling that wicked grin that had endeared him to her all those years ago. Her Bert, her beloved Bert, whole again. He looked down at her, his hand held out, "Come on, Sar," he smiled, "looks like you could do with a good cuddle."
Oh yes," she sobbed, "oh yes, my dearest Bert."
(Open the fucking door, you old slag!! NOW!!!)
And suddenly, miraculously, she was standing before him. Rising tip-toed on the bodyheat of sensual rebirth. She gasped and Bert laughed.
"Feels good, hey Sar?"
(Fucking old bitch, open this fucking door or you're DEAD!!)
Oh, it felt so good. She wanted to frolic like a lamb, but instead she stilled as she assimilated him, refilling the mental vacuum, until he sparkled within her like fire in the grate of a long-empty house.
(Sounds of smashing glass.)
She reached out tentatively, then tenderly with a joy that caught in her throat as she touched the reality of his beautiful face.
(Sounds of feet hitting the floor.)
"And you Bert, no more pain, no more blisters?"
He smiled as he raised his hand to press her touch into his cheek. Then moved it to his forehead. "That's where it really hurt, cariad. You know that. In there I always seemed to be doubled up, you know, clutching at the pain..." Suddenly his eyes took on a desperate sadness and his head lowered in shame, "... Oh, my luvly, I let you down so badly!"
"No!" she almost screamed, "Never!" She pulled his head almost violently to her chest. Her eyes wide, defiantly searched the world for anything that would dare threaten the child at her breast. "Never! You were so good, so warm! And the world so cold. But the heat of you remained with me always." She lifted his head to look into his eyes, "Oh, Bert, you never left me."
He exhaled a shuddering sigh then touched his lips to her forehead. "I could never leave you, cariad."
(Get up, you fucking old slag. Get the fuck UP!")
"Am I dead Bert?"
He reached out quickly to prevent her looking back, nestling her face in his big hands. "Oh no, not you... not dead, just... free from pain, that's all, cariad... just free."
Then they held tight to one another while years of pain seeped into the rough fabric at his chest. Eventually she pushed herself away. "Bert!" she sniffled in delight, "You smell of coal dust!" She pressed her nose into his chest and inhaled deeply. "Oh Bert, I love it!"
"Aye..."
A certain note in his voice made her look up into his eyes. Yes there it was, the wicked grin she hoped, knew, would be there. He raised his eyebrows, "But carbolic is better.."
"Oh, Bert...!" she punched his chest playfully before holding him as tight as all her strength permitted, "You're so rude..."
"Aye." he answered her muffled voice. "...so rude..."
And as the children played, kicking at her lifeless body, Bert took her away, took her home to where a tin bath steamed in front of a welcoming hearth and where, outside, a little girl played in safety.
END
© Barry Blackmore
MOVE OVER, SON! 630 words
Suzannah, sighed. Ending a relationship must be the hardest thing in the world. Just how do you confront another human being with a truth, which places a lie at the centre of their universe. He'd have to know though, and sometime soon.
And when soon came, she found herself at his doorstep looking up into his hopeful face. "I love someone else!" she blurted.
His face drained and his words when they came were a growl. "So you come to my house to tell me that. What's the matter Suzannah, figured you hadn't screwed me enough, yet?!
She took a deep breath. "Not your house, John... your fathers'." She pushed past his confusion, entering the hall just as the living room door opened. A little old man appeared there before clumping towards her on his wooden leg. She smiled radiantly at her someone else, and clasped the small geezer to her breast.
She'd loved him from the first moment she'd seen him. He'd fallen to his knees before her as she'd entered his domain. So impulsive, so romantic. He'd reached out touching her knee. "Shtop..!" he'd commanded, "..you'll shtep on me teef!"
She'd laughed gaily as she'd placed her hand on his scrawny pate. Immediately she'd gasped as the heat of his cranial wit scintillated under her touch, spreading up her arm to enter her breast like obsession. "There they are." she'd laughed pointing to where the mandibles snapped at his ankles.
"Where?!" he'd croaked, "Can't shee a bloody thing without me glashes."
"I'll get your glasses." She'd offered, eager to be part of his whimsy.
"Watsh where you going girl, you'll shnag me drip!"
"Oh, you are a wag!" she'd scolded good humouredly, whilst shifting the drip stand with attached plasma bottle to one side. She'd reached over his orthopaedic chair, past the piles of daily Stars, Sports, tv mags, and there just under the trusses, but in front of the sundry surgical appliances, she'd found the bottle bottoms held together with wire. "Here they are." she said placing them into his blindly searching hand.
He'd looked up then and she'd been struck by the lunar landscape beauty of his features. She'd found her sea of tranquillity. It was such a supportive face. She'd noted in particular, the way his chin seemed to support his forehead, and his magnified gaze peered at her like a cartoon clam from its partially opened shell.
In that very instant she'd known love... true love. "What is your name?" she'd trembled.
"Me matesh call me Moby."
"Oh, how wonderful! she'd marveled. "Is that because you are a mystery, like the gargantuan blue intellects of the ocean are mysteries?"
"Don't push it, girl.. ish a medical condition, all right!"
He found his teeth and she watched as he pushed them expertly into his face. His head tilted up and back like the lid on a beer stein. Then he was grinning like a portcullis and his tongue stabbed out and wobbled about like a very naughty drawbridge. "Scale me ramparts lass, and I just might show you me itchings!"
She was about to ask, "Don't you mean..?" when his sudden, frantic, and very personal scratching told her he knew exactly what he meant.
She shook her head in wonder.. "What a man!!"
Now, as she held tight to her one truth, she raised her head defiantly and peered down that hallway of her final betrayal. She defied the accusing eyes in the young man's once loved face.
"Well come on, Shon!" wheezed the ancient geezer at her side, "Come shay, hello, to your new mother."
There was a strangled scream, then the doorway was empty.
END
(c) Barry Blackmore
The following is the first Chapter of Barry's Work in Progress.
SPEAK WITH ANOTHER MAN'S EYES
PG 17 Language/Content
Chapter One
"Oh Stevie, he seemed so nice, such a gentleman, and I really felt terrible. And you know how you hate me to drink and drive... I remember, he walked me to his car and. . .I guess...I guess, I must have fainted or something, because the next thing I knew I felt this terrible, terrible agony. I thought I must be dying... and then, Oh God, Stevie, I saw him above me...looking down at me with these crazy animal eyes. Oh Stevie, I'm so sorry...He was inSIDE me!"
Steve felt sick, real sick, like he could open his mouth and vomit the whole of his life down the pan, but he held her anyway, held her tight; after all, her tormented eyes stated clearly how completely innocent a victim she had been. Okay, so she'd been silly, but from time to time how could she not be, there were so many men, so many hungry, acquisitive, clever men with so many traps for a woman as mouth-wateringly beautiful as Melissa.
He held her and swore to her that no-one would ever be allowed to hurt her again. She let her head fall against his chest, "Get him for me Stevie. Hurt him, hurt him bad, please...for me?!"
He nodded.
Seemingly satisfied, her eyes misted over. With a shuddering sigh she opened herself to the demands of his forgiveness.
Early the next morning he'd gone looking for his, so-called, friend. He answered his, Hi, Steve!" with a smashing fist to the face. The friend fell heavily, raising shocked eyes as blood poured from between the fingers held to his shattered nose.
"Jesus, Steve...!" he began, but choked off as Steve's boot caught him squarely in the teeth. He gurgled and when he spat, two teeth could be seen glistening in the blood on the floor.
"Awww..," he sobbed, "..Christ, Steve... I... I swear, I tried to say no..." He paused, a sound like a hot mud bubble erupted in his throat, and a gout of yellow-red apology spilled from his lying mouth. "Oh, God! Oh God...," he drooled, "...it was HER!! She fucked ME, dammit - SHE fucked ME!!!"
"LIAR!!" Steve screamed, his cold rage turning to madness, "Goddam, mother-fuckin' LIAR!! Shut your.. . goddam. . . stinking. . .lying. . . MOUTH!!!" He punctuated each word with a kick, his madness glorying in the therapeutic give of flesh under his boot. Undoubtedly, he would have killed him if others hadn't appeared, to pull him away.
She was there when he got home. He leaned back tiredly against the door. It clicked shut. There was a delicious rustle of satin and lace as she rose from the chair. She stood looking at him, her eyes wide; the light, modestly low, haloing her innocence. He whimpered inside at the vision she made and a stab of guilt flashed in his head as his mind reached out to her most secret places. He tried to shun his burgeoning maleness, repulsed that the animal within him could so readily worship where another man defiled. Could he be sure that she would know the difference, if indeed there was a difference. Somehow it seemed wrong and he experienced a peculiar, uniquely male fear at his response to the smell of her as she took his arm.
He was in awe of her then. If she was anything other than a mere woman she would undoubtedly be priceless, beyond his grasp and yet because she was just a woman, he was justified in stripping her naked and impaling her. And that was supposed to prove his love, not his subconscious desire to hurt and humiliate and degrade her.
"Steve, you're trembling! What's wrong?"
He shook his head in confusion, "I just kicked your rrr...your molestor half to death."
"Steve!" she gripped his arm more tightly. Quickly he looked away from her. He'd done what any man would do to the man who'd raped his wife, so why did he feel so ashamed? And why did he fear something he thought he'd heard in her voice, something intangible, like the mist which, for a moment, before she could control herself, rose in her eyes.
"Oh, Steve my darling, you are alright aren't you!? I mean you didn't go too far did you?"
Too far, he thought idiotically, Too far! There was a tremor in his voice when he answered, "He went all the way; I tried to go a little further." He dropped his head until he was breathing in the scent of her hair. He kissed her head, "I wanted to kill him!"
"Oh, Stevie!"
He felt her shudder, then she straightened up and looked intently at him. He couldn't help noticing the increased rhythm of the light upon her breasts.
"They had to pull me off him."
She nodded eagerly, "But you did hurt him first?!"
"Yes." The word hung in the air like an instinctive response to a misheard question. He looked down at her, seeking clarification in her eyes, but she just whispered, "Oh..." and closed them. They remained closed for a long time, but when, eventually, they reopened, Steve groaned. Her gaze was misty and hooded. His prescient flesh quivered: her mind had slipped south beneath the satin and lace.
He'd almost killed a man for doing what he was about to do, but there was a difference... wasn't there? - if only that particular friend hadn't acted so completely out of character...
Then Melissa parted her lips...
In retrospect the following months were like recollections of insanity in which he'd sought to save Melissa from herself. Blind arrogance? Or perhaps he'd just been young then. He remembered feeling proudly defiant in the face of those who could never understand his love for the misunderstood beauty. He forgave her and forgave her again as one by one she alienated his friends with her body. If no man was an island then he just hadn't met Melissa.
Gradually his head became a pain capsule, and knotted anxiety constricted his breathing, sending pressurised rage to flex the flimsy constraints of his skull. He was going mad and he didn't care; he'd peered through the flames, saw the witch smile and thought it was she who was burning. But he was right wasn't he? How could he not be when it was he who lay at home with Melissa, in their bed together, making love, real love, not the rutting she craved as penance for some minor childhood misdeed, perverted into compulsion by inept parents.
That's how he tried to rationalise her faithlessness, mentally looking sideways at her infidelities, reluctantly recognising, but failing to acknowledge the depth of the rot. But sometimes his romantic rationalisations failed him, so that, in place of the soft focus deceptions, he saw the stark reality, the aggressive wanton urging her latest acquaintance to even greater industry between her beautiful voracious thighs. He saw most clearly during those moments of self-doubt, so clearly that had Melissa's infidelities been razors he could have slashed his wrists with his visualisations.
It was all he could do to stop himself screaming out loud, but he just sat and stared, because to move would be to commit himself inexorably to an end which, although out of sight, wreaked sickeningly of evil. So as paralysis normally beset the body of a dreamer his body became as leaden and dull as an unexploded bomb. With desperate patience he waited for his position to become untenable.
Then he lost his job. Not that he cared anymore. He was surprised to have kept going for as long as he had without grabbing an ouzi and doing a batch job on his colleagues. It would have been so much easier than trying to beat them to death one at a time - though possibly not as satisfying.
Still, it came almost as a relief to walk away from that building knowing he need never go back, that never again would he need to run the gauntlet of all those eyes - so many of them reflecting still, the writhing image of a naked Melissa. Bastards!! His mind screamed and urged him to flee, but a minute vestige of pride made him walk on legs which begged to be allowed to curl up in some corner and die.
So, suddenly he'd become a free-lance journalist. It had been in his mind anyway: he hadn't needed David to make the decision for him. Although, until that moment when David reached out to touch him with his contempt, Steve had thought himself emotionally out of reach of everybody.
David had ordered Steve to wait for him in his office. When eventually David turned up he did so as a stranger. He entered his office, rounded his desk and without sitting down placed a brown envelope in front of Steve. From where he sat, Steve raised questioning eyes.
"Severance pay." David told him shortly.
Steve was shocked, though he didn't know why. It would have been justice if he'd been kicked out long ago, but then again all his craziness was out of character. Surely David could see that even when no-one else could. Incredulously he asked, "You're letting me go?!"
"No, I'm getting rid of you!"
Steve searched for some compassion in the man, but it was like searching for life in a ghost. "Dave, I've behaved like a jerk... I know that, but I thought, perhaps suspension...?"
"No!" David cut him dead. "No suspension. I want you gone. The sooner the better!"
Dazedly Steve shook his head, "Wait a minute, now. Just wait a minute! I figure I'm missing something here." He sat forward, squinting as he searched for any sign of remembered friendship, but the past was masked and disfigured by the stern lines and gaunt features.
"I want you gone, Steve. In fact I'll be blunter than that, I never want to see you again."
Steve's jaw dropped. This was crazy and with some justification he figured himself an expert on crazy. "For Christ's sake Dave! Not one word of help? Not even the tiniest bit of curiosity why I'm like this? Don't you give a goddam!?" He found himself on his feet as though lifted there by the rising pitch of his voice.
David, as though the effort of following Steve's sudden movement was too much for him, seemed to lose his balance. He tottered backwards, clutched at his desk, before sitting down abruptly. Then as though to prove sitting had been his own idea he swivelled the chair to face the window. His voice came tiredly over his shoulder. "Goddamit, take your money and go."
Despite the man's hostility, Steve couldn't help being moved by the unmistakable vulnerability of the old scooped out skull and the scrawny shoulders in the padded suit. Often, in even darker times, including two heart attacks and the death of his wonderful wife, Steve had put his arm around those shoulders and comforted him till the dawn arrived to exorcise old man's fears. He felt the sting of poignant memory in his eyes. Was there nothing left of value in this stinking pig-sick world?!
"You old bastard!!" he spat. The vehemence in his voice made David turn. Steve was gratified to see his hostility replaced by shock. "Yes that's exactly what you are; just some selfish old bastard with a shortage of memory and an even greater shortage of compassion!"
David opened his mouth to interrupt, but was silenced, more by his own shame than Steve's, "Shut up, damn you, and listen...!" Steve leaned forward, his weight supported by his fists on the desk.
"I've been there for you, you bastard! You know it! I've been there..!"
He was surprised into silence when David sprang into exaggerated life.
"Ah, yes! Now I see!"
Steve figured the grotesque facial tic was meant to be a smile. He watched David reach into his inside pocket and produce a checkbook, which he slapped onto the desk-top. He opened it with a flourish and as he reached for a pen he asked, "Now, Steve, I'm afraid it's slipped my mind for the moment, just remind me again would you - what is your hourly rate for caring?"
In the silence that followed, anything could have happened, the passage of each second marked off by the tic on David's face. In all probability it was this which saved him from violence. Steve was hypnotised by it, plus the sheer enormity of the insult was a hell of a lot to ingest in one sitting.
It was some time before he felt able to continue. His voice, when it returned, rasped like the breath under a growl, "There was no sacrifice on my part; I cared because I cared. Put your check-book away; put it where your compassion used to be..." He thought he saw a pain like cloud-shadow pass over David's face. Steve shrugged and turned away to the door. Suddenly he had to get away. The pain from what he had just seen die, was too hard to bear.
At the door he reached for the handle, but something stopped him; another presence in the room, a desperate caring; memories of Edith could do that to a man. He looked back over his shoulder, bitter distaste curling his lips, "Where the fuck did I get the idea that I was important to you!? You know damn well, I'm having trouble with Melissa!..." He saw David look up at the mention of her name, a ghost haunted by the living.
"... I bet you even know the specifics yet you've done and said nothing to help me... It's too late now, I know, and that's my fault, but dammit, even if you're revolted by a friend drowning in his own shit, you can at least throw him a life-line before running away... You've got to try, for God's sake...!" Then more quietly as he looked down to watch his hand turning the handle.. "Edith would have tried."
From behind him there came a strangled cry followed by a thud. Steve turned quickly, fully expecting to see David collapsed on the floor, but he couldn't have been more wrong. David stood at his desk, face drained of blood through clotted eyes. To Steve, he seemed to be growing older and older by the second. Then the old man's hiss, an arid desert soul-wind, whistled through false teeth. "Don't you dare, ever, mention Edith's name in the same breath as...as...," gasping and spluttering he seemed about to explode, "... as that whore of yours!"
Ah, so now it was out: whatever it was, it was out. Slowly, very slowly, Steve turned back. He didn't want to turn, on the contrary, he wanted to clap his hands over his ears and run away, anything other than listen to David's story. "Well go on...," he urged sardonically, "...you've watched me drown, now's your chance to piss on me."
David leaned his weight against the desk. He was exhausted, beaten, and he had - Steve knew - a terrible beaten man's tale to tell.
"Oh, Christ, Steve I don't want to hurt you, I...I just want some peace, and I can't get that as long as you're around - you must believe me, I don't want you hurt, just...absent."
He groaned and sat down heavily. "Look, I know... I never did thank you for your support when Edith was dying: I swear I couldn't have coped without you there, so, for the help you gave us then...thank you..."
"And Melissa?"
"Yes...Melissa." He spoke her name with a hint of bravado (There you see, I'm not afraid to say it.), and fear, like he would have said cancer. He didn't look at Steve, he just stared at the desk-top, his voice toneless. "Melissa comforted me too...I swear she must be the most terrifyingly beautiful woman in the world..." He paused, weighing his words, then he looked up directly into Steve's eyes, "...you remember how I was in those last few weeks, those last few days, knowing that. . .finally. . .here it was...that my Edith was..." He dropped his face into his hands and Steve could see his shoulders begin to shake. His grief was silent, lonely, but Steve, himself drained, could do nothing. He just stared out the window, at the neon lights growing brighter against the darkening sky: at the slow-moving traffic, the synapses of the city, moving life on. Right then, if he'd had the button, he'd have stopped it all...dead!
Eventually David palmed away the tears. "Melissa was there that last night - you'd gone for food, remember? I was holding Edi's hand. I couldn't get over how peaceful... how beautiful she looked... It seemed so unfair, she looked so happy and I... I was watching my whole life come to an end. Oh God, I was hurting so bad and she was just... just lying there. . .oblivious to what she was doing to me. Suddenly... Jesus, so suddenly, I felt this anger! I've never felt such anger! My mind felt like meat being fed to a pack of dogs. I was being torn every which way! JESUS! Can you believe how low a weak man can stoop?! I wanted to shake her, punch her terrifying stillness; how dare she leave me to fend for myself. I mean what was I without her to share my life? What was I... nothing...!
And then, just as suddenly, the rage was gone, and God, it left such a hole! Such a hole! A giant vacuum inside me, crushing me! And then the guilt like a blizzard rushed into my soul. I think I screamed; I know I threw myself to the floor beside Edi's bed and begged her forgiveness for those terrible, disgusting thoughts. How could I... how could I have thought such things...? But I did, dammit, I did...
And then... Melissa was there. She took my arm and helped me from the room... She took me into another bedroom and sat me on the bed. She began to comfort me - Steve, I swear I didn't know what was happening. Hell, I was still blubbering like a baby. She was holding me, cradling my head against her chest. My eyes were closed, but suddenly I realised that my hands, my face, were touching bare flesh. I thought it was velvet at first, or silk, but when I looked, I thought it must be a dream. My God, what I saw... the most beautiful flower in creation... opening... for me. I tried to stop what was happening, but hell it just had to be a dream... I was an old man and she was so wondrously soft and... beautiful, and accomadating. To my ravaged mind it seemed so normal, so right...!
Anyway it was all over very quickly... premature guilt I guess, then we went downstairs. Just after, you came back with the food: remember, you went upstairs straight away to check on Edith..." He paused for a long time with his face in his hands, "... and that's when we discovered she'd gone. She'd died all alone because I... I was in another room ...!
Imagine that. . ." he sobbed, "...the only time in twenty eight years and... and I saved it so my beloved wife could die alone... Oh God, oh God, what if... what if just before she died... what if she reached out for me... and I wasn't there!? Oh, God help me, I'm so sorry Edie, I'm so sorry!"
He sobbed for what seemed an age, with his head on the desk, while Steve stood like desolation by the door. Perhaps he should have done something - if only he hadn't felt so cold, so deep down, bone-burning cold.
Later when David was just an occasional scrawny shadow-head against the neon, he looked up, seemingly peering, as though uncertain whether Steve was still there, then he said, "I have these dreams, these nightmares in which I'm with Melissa, doing... you know. . .what we did and I look up and see Edie... Edie's ghost looking at me and crying... always crying. Dear God, I can't help wondering whether they are just dreams, or whether... whether it actually happened... Is such a thing possible, could... Oh, Jesus... such a thing have happened?"
Steve felt inconsequential, nothing more than a cold spot in a haunted house. What the hell did it matter what he thought? The scrawny old bastard had killed him, now he was asking him to give him peace... well he'd come to the wrong funeral if that's what he wanted. He heard himself answer, "Yes, that is exactly what happened. It's no simple guilt trip. You were sprung pal! Edith's ghost walked, and bore witness to the laying-waste - pun intended, old man - of the whole of her life... Sweet move, Dave! You must feel real proud!"
Steve turned slowly, opened the door, and left the room to its ghost.
"That's what I thought," said the old man to the empty room, "That's what I thought." The sound of a desk drawer being opened, then a handgun clicked. "I'm so sorry, Edie. . ." The shadow seemed to grow a large horn on the right side of its head...
"It doesn't matter a damn whether she saw you or not!" The voice came from the silently opened door. Steve had come back. "She loved you! More importantly, she knew you loved her. Hell, man, if Edith had known your pain and it was in her power, she'd have given you Melissa herself, all tied up with love and understanding, and forgiveness should you need it. For Christ's sake, you faithless, gutless fuck! She is Edith! Stop insulting her, hurting her, with your self-pity. Open your goddamned senses and you might get a surprise!"
Then, once more, he was gone.
And suddenly the old man in the empty room didn't feel alone anymore.
(c) Barry Blackmore
E-Mail Barry Blackmore
Subscribe to New Writers' E-Mail List
Angelfire - Easiest Free Home Pages
Visit Often to Learn about the New Writers' List's Featured Writer
A Different Member Will be Featured Each Month!Like this Page ?
Please email a friend !
