A lot of Greek to me

oneiric\oh-NYE-rik\     adjective   : of or relating to dreams : dreamy       The paintings, filled with fantastical imagery conjured by the artist's imagination, have a compellingly oneiric quality.   "Most of the actors here are double and triple cast, and if they barely differentiate among their roles, that just adds to the oneiric effect." — From a theater review by Jeffrey Gantz in The Boston Globe, March 12, 2012           The notion of using the Greek noun "oneiros" (meaning "dream") to form the English adjective "oneiric" wasn't dreamed up until the mid-19th century. But back in the early 1600s, linguistic dreamers came up with a few "oneiros" spin-offs, giving English "oneirocriticism," "oneirocritical," and "oneirocritic" (each referring to dream interpreters or interpretation). The surge in "oneiros" derivatives at that time may have been fueled by the interest then among English-speaking scholars in Oneirocritica, a book about dream interpretation by 2nd-century Greek soothsayer Artemidorus Daldianus.

The Empress by Mrellan Harahan

Mrellan has written many short stories and been published in magazines. Her stories mainly focus on everyday life, both modern and historical. She has also written Fairy stories with a strong Gaelic influence, something that runs through her veins and goes back to her Irish ancestors.

Albert lovingly stroked the hood of the 1924 Rolls Royce Ghost Pall Mall Tourer with a kid-gloved hand.  Her long silver hood reflected the pink and gold tones of the summer sunset like a mirror.  She was a rare Springfield model, built in the USA rather than Britain, but that did not change her regal parentage, rather it enhanced that fact. 

The day Mr. Prestwick hired Albert he gave him the scrapbook that was the pictorial record of this empress of the twenty-car garage on The Oaks.  “My grandfather bought ‘The Empress’ as a gift to my grandmother the day my father was born.  On my parent’s wedding day, my grandmother presented it to them.  My father often said that on his wedding day he got the two ladies he loved most in the world.” 

He chuckled at the memory and said, “I often wondered how my grandmother felt about my father putting his love for the car before her.”

Mr. Prestwick also gave him a small black leather covered notebook, a set of keys on a plain gold key ring with an engraved tag saying, “The Empress”, and a pair of handmade kid gloves. His first instruction was, “Don’t ever touch her with your bare hands.  The oil in your skin is bad for her paint.” 

Albert felt for the notebook that was always in the inside pocket of his jacket.  The first twenty pages or so contained information about The Empress.  Things like, the brand of polish the original chauffeur used, the repairs made after minor accidents, and every day wear over fifty-one years.  When a chauffeur arrived or left, he always wrote a note to the lady. 

One wrote, “I will miss your stunning body, the comfort of your leather seats and your cranky gear box on a cold day.”

 Albert continued the tradition with, “I am proud to meet you my lady, I hope we will have a long and happy relationship together.”  He dated the entry, 12 June 1975, and it was Albert’s twenty-fifth birthday.  

Albert spent the afternoon washing, waxing, cleaning and polishing The Empress.  The windows were so clean they were invisible.  The walnut grain dashboard got a new coat of oil.  The last thing Albert did was lay a camel color blanket of the finest Irish wool on the backseat. 

Albert removed his gloves as he walked back to his office at the end of the garage.  He sat down to the desk, picked up a pen, and wrote, “12 June 2000.  Today I celebrate my fiftieth birthday and my twenty-fifth year of employment at The Oaks.  Tonight I will raise a glass of wine to The Empress and to my dear friend, Mrs. Prestwick.  If I could have one wish, it would be to have another twenty-five years with this magnificent car and the incomparable lady that owns it.”

Tonight Mrs. Parker, the cook would prepare the picnic basket that Albert would pick up in the morning.  Tomorrow was the twentieth anniversary of the death of the current Mr. Prestwick’s father.  Mrs. Prestwick refused to be sad or morbid on the anniversary of the death of her husband.  Instead, she developed the custom of spending the day out celebrating, her life and marriage of over thirty years before her husband died.  They would take a hamper of food to Crab Cove and spend the day. 

As he pressed the starched white shirt he would wear with his uniform tomorrow, he reminisced about all the good times of the past twenty-five years.  The times he had taken the family to church on Sunday.  The day Elsie, the only girl rode the Empress to the cathedral in Providence for her wedding ceremony.  She had been a gorgeous bride and her parents, on either side of her, could not have been more proud.   The two boys and their dates proudly rode to the Senior Prom on a warm May evening under a full moon.

The day dawned gloriously beautiful and clear.  It was a day to challenge every owner of a sailboat, on Narragansett Bay, to enjoy the perfect weather.  A wisp of a breeze blew across Albert’s face, carrying the scent of roses.  Albert entered the garden and picked a red damask rosebud, breathed in its intoxicating perfume, then tucked it into the buttonhole of his uniform jacket.  He whistled, “It’s a Lovely Day Today,” as he walked the remaining distance to the kitchen of the main house.

Mrs. Parker bustled around the kitchen giving orders to her young assistant, Sara, and preparing breakfast for the family.  When she saw Albert she stopped to say a quick good morning and tell him the hamper would be ready and waiting when he picked up Mrs. Prestwick.  “Her nurse, Susan tells me she is positively bubbling over this morning she is so excited about going out.”

“Good, I have something extraordinary planned for her today.  Can you please tell Susan that she will need to wear a hat that is securely fastened and will not blow away in the wind?”

Mrs. Parker’s eyes sparkled, and she brought her short, pudgy fingers up to the side of her face.  “Are you going to put the top down on The Empress?”

“Yes,” said Albert, “but don’t tell her, it is a surprise. I want to see the look on her face when she comes through the door and see’s the Empress.”

As Albert walked away, he could hear the ohhs and ahhs from the other staff who heard his announcement. 

Everyone in the house, whether family or staff dearly loved the elder Mrs. Prestwick.  She had been ill for months with heart difficulties that eventually caused her to have heart surgery six weeks ago.  Since the surgery, the color had returned to her delicate, tissue thin cheeks and the joy of being alive was back in her eyes.  She had a strong spirit that loved her family and her home at The Oaks, but her fragile body bore the scars of seventy-eight years of living and a life-long heart condition.   Her doctor was astonished that she was still alive.  Albert said a small prayer of thanks every time he was able to take her out in the Empress.

At exactly 09:55, Albert drove the Empress up the driveway and parked her at the front door.  One of the maids immediately opened the door and carried the large picnic hamper out to the car.  Albert placed it on the floor of the front passenger seat.  Susan, the nurse, pushed the wheelchair across the entryway to the car.  Mrs. Prestwick began to laugh as soon as she saw the Empress.  She turned in the wheel chair and told Susan how pleased she was that Albert put the top down.   Susan stared in awe at the magnificent silver car with red leather upholstery, wire wheels and hubs painted the same fire-engine tone.

“What do you think?” Said Mrs. Prestwick, beaming with pride of ownership. 

Susan could only manage a breathless, “Oh, it’s beautiful!”

“She’s beautiful!”  Corrected Mrs. Prestwick.  With a wave of her white gloved hand, she said, “Susan, this is the Empress.  She is a 1924 Rolls Royce Touring Car, and the pride of every member of the Prestwick Family.

Susan pushed the wheelchair, about ten feet from the car Mrs. Prestwick held up her hand to stop the nurse, “I can walk from here,” she said.  She stood and adjusted the skirt of the striking blue silk sheath dress with gold and silver embroidered paisleys.  It had a simple straight line and ended with three soft ruffles at the bottom, silk stockings and navy blue velvet heels finished the look perfectly.  On her head was a wide brim straw hat decorated with blue velvet flowers and white baby’s breath.  A sheer silk scarf, tied in a large bow on one side of her face held the hat.  Susan had helped her to apply a little powder and lipstick to her beaming face.

“Why Mrs. Prestwick, I have never seen you look so beautiful.  The men must have chased you all the way from Providence to Fire Island when you were young,” Albert declared.

Mrs. Prestwick blushed and held a white lace trimmed handkerchief to her cheek in a caricature of modesty.  She held out her other white gloved hand for Albert to assist her into the car. 

Albert was tickled that she was enjoying herself so much even before the outing started.  After much fussing and adjusting, she was finally installed in the car like a queen perched on a throne.  The passenger windscreen would help to keep her from being chilled and the Irish wool blanket was carefully tucked around her legs.

“Madam, would you like to circle around through the village so that everyone can admire both you and the Empress?  Then we’ll take the bay road down to Crab Cove for your picnic.”

Her hat bobbed up and down as she smiled and nodded, yes, to Albert. 

Just as Albert had hoped, the streets of the village were filled with both residents and tourists.  He made a point of slowing down as they turned onto the main street.  In just a few feet, The Empress and Mrs. Prestwick became a one car parade.  People looked and waved and Mrs. Prestwick waved back in delight.  Some of the residents even called her by name and this just made her smile wider.

The water of Narragansett Bay was a deep cobalt reflection of the cloudless blue sky.  The drive to Crab Cove ended almost too soon.  Albert suggested that Mrs. Prestwick stay in the car until he spread the blanket on the grass and brought out the picnic hamper.  She had forgotten her cane, so Albert put his arm around her waist to steady her.  He was surprised how fragile and small she felt when he helped her sit on the blanket. 

Mrs. Parker had outdone herself with cucumber sandwiches and teacakes of several different varieties. Albert served her on Royal Dalton China plates and eggshell thin porcelain cups and saucers.  

She talked for a long time about what it had been like growing up in Newport, Rhode Island, before WWII.  The Debutante Ball came alive with her description of how she met the handsome and sought after Robert Prestwick.  Albert could almost see her getting younger as she told him about their wedding day and Robert’s famous statement about having the two ladies, he most loved.   

He poured tea from a silver pot and offered her sugar cubes from a silver box with little flower-etched tongs. Crème Brulee in little white pots was served with linen napkins and silver spoons.  Mrs. Prestwick finished her Brulee and politely yawned into her lace handkerchief.

“You know Albert; it has all been just so perfect today.  I will never forget how special you have made this for me.  I wish Robert was here to share it with, but you know, I feel that he has been with us today.”

Albert packed up the dishes and the remaining food into the hamper.  When he tried to help Mrs. Prestwick to her feet, she did not seem to have the strength to stand.

Albert sat her back down on the blanket and asked, “It has been a long day for you madam, would you like me to carry you to the car?”

She looked up at him with weary tiredness in her eyes, “Yes please, I just suddenly feel very tired.”

He carried her to the car and wrapped her legs in the blanket although it was quite warm outside. 

“I think I’ll just take a little nap on the way home, Albert,” she said, then she reached up and kissed Albert on the cheek, “Thank you, for one of the happiest days I can remember in many years.  You’re a good man Albert and you are a special friend to me.”

Albert glanced back in the mirror several times on the way home, but she seemed to be sleeping peacefully, so he did not say anything to her. 

Pulling up to the front door, Albert noticed that her broad brimmed hat had slid down over her face and she had not moved it back on her head.  He called Susan’s cell number and asked her to bring down the wheel chair.  He took the hat off and Mrs. Prestwick did not move.  Her eyes were closed and her skin was the translucent color of white porcelain, like the teacups they drank from earlier.  Her lips formed into just a trace of a smile.  He thought about how peaceful she looked sitting there.  He picked up her hand and it was cold and limp. 

“Susan, I think…...”

Susan stepped up into the car and checked her pulse.  She felt nothing.  She then checked her eyes and felt for a pulse on her throat. 

In a sad, quiet voice,  she said, “She is gone Albert.  She must have died on the way home.”

A tear rolled down her cheek as she asked Albert to carry Mrs. Prestwick into the house.

Five days later, Albert once more climbed behind the wheel of the gleaming Empress.  The sun again shone from a cloudless sky.  A temporary platform was attached from the front to the back seat.  Pallbearers lifted the ornate wood casket to the platform and tied it down with two stout leather straps.  The remaining back seat was filled with bouquets and ribbon bannered set pieces.  Albert slowly drove the Empress down the driveway of the funeral home and turned on to the main street.  People walking on the sidewalk stopped in respect and men removed their hats.  Shopkeepers stood in their doorways and waved as Albert slowly drove by. 

The Empress and her lady made one last parade through the little New England town.

More text books for the serious writer

I have a couple of these books and they are simple to read and understand.

My tip. Buy the books you need and study them and where possible take part in the exercises at the end of chapters. You will be surprised how writing with these at your elbow improves your editing skills.

These four can be bought separately but are a set - all published by Writers Digest Books.  All are headed - The Elements Of Fiction Writing - between $2.50 and  $5 each.

Conflict, Action & Suspense  - William Noble

Dialogue  - Lewis Turco

Theme & Strategy - Ronald B. Tobias

Setting - Jack M. Bickham

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=the+elements+if+fiction+writing

Well I never - Fancy that

utopia\yoo-TOH-pee-uh\

 

 

noun

 

1 :	often capitalized : a place of ideal perfection especially in laws, government, and social conditions
2 :	an impractical scheme for social improvement

 

 

To some people, gated communities are visions of Utopia—safe, quiet, and out of the way.   "Peninsula Players has entertained generations of audiences since it was founded in 1935 by a brother-and-sister team, Caroline and Richard Fisher, who dreamed of an artistic utopia where actors, designers and technicians could focus on their craft while being surrounded by nature in a contemplative setting." — From an article in the Green Bay Press-Gazette, March 12, 2014

 

 

	DID YOU KNOW

In 1516, English humanist Sir Thomas More published a book titled Utopia. It compared social and economic conditions in Europe with those of an ideal society on an imaginary island located off the coast of the Americas. More wanted to imply that the perfect conditions on his fictional island could never really exist, so he called it "Utopia," a name he created by combining the Greek words "ou" (meaning "no, not") and "topos" (meaning "place," a root used in our word "topography"). The earliest generic use of "utopia" was for an imaginary and indefinitely remote place. The current use of "utopia," referring to an ideal place or society, was inspired by More's description of Utopia's perfection.

An Editor who can write

When I first started writing seriously, I never gave editors a thought. They were Gods of the literary world only 'made it' authors could afford and in any case, 'who needs them?' To certain extent, financially, that still holds true but my attitude has changed dramatically towards why they are needed. Good editors are worth every penny they charge but for those of us self publishing nowadays the solution is one that will take us a few years to resolve. We don't have money for an editor but we can buy text books and we can look at our own work with a different pair of eyes and thought process. Whatever way we look at editing it is a craft, just as important as the author's book when it is published. So I was pleasantly surprised when my editor, Suraya Dewing, announced she was writing a book. That was two years ago. Looking through the book, one can see how well she edited her work.....At least, readers who know she is an editor would be forgiven for thinking that. Like all writers, she had to have someone edit her book. The book, Bend with the Wind,  is a wonderful read. Fiction has been blended with fact over the Springbok tour of New Zealand in the eighties that caused near riots over apartheid. There are conflicts of interest and a love story. Suraya has shown she is at the top of her profession both as an editor and a writer. She continues to mentor rookie writers and run The Story Mint that has spawned some good talent. I recommend her book and encourage those who want to write creatively to go and have a look at The Story Mint site.www.thestorymint.com

Her book can be purchased at Amazon.  http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=bend+with+the+wind

Firefly - The next job

Firefly - the next job

Submitted by Ray Stone on Tuesday 15 April 2014

This is the second chapter of a short story I am working on. Thank you.

I sat nursing a cup of coffee in Denny’s thinking about ‘Firefly’s’ letter. The old lady’s money was good but getting caught would mean ten years in the pen. Smitty was all for it but then he wasn't taking any risks. It had been several weeks since the job in Milford and it was time to make up my mind before someone else took my place. Maybe they already had and if that was the case then I wasn't going to lose any sleep over it.

Mildred appeared beside my booth, hovering with a coffee jug. She was a big black woman with bright brown eyes. Around fifty, she was a native of Alabama with a sing-song husky voice and a no-nonsense attitude. She brushed one large hand down the side of her blue apron and then clicked her fingers at me.

“Now, Johnny baby, I’m here to serve you whatever you wants but that ‘aint supposed to be just coffee. This time of the mornin’ I can serve over easy egg and grits or a steak and eggs, sunny side up, or…” she leaned over me, her unblinking eyes looking into mine,…“ I can kick that cute little tush of yours straight out the door.”

With that she broke into a loud laugh that boomed across the restaurant, disturbing one early morning diner from his breakfast and another old man in a dilapidated Stetson who glared over the top of his newspaper. He promptly flapped the paper with annoyance before returning his gaze back to the news. Mildred took no notice and continued to laugh, her large buttocks and bosom shaking vigorously. She poked me with a bright red fingernail that protruded from a thick forefinger

“You should see the look on your face, Johnny baby.” She swung the jug my way. “You want more coffee, honey?”

“No thanks, Mildred,” I answered, placing a hand over my mug. I smiled. “I’ve got to make a call.”

I left the diner and walked across the car lot, a dusty square of tarmac pot-holed by eighteen wheelers. Strewn across it were discarded plastic drinks cups and fast food boxes full of dog ends left by truckers and travelling salesmen. None of the locals, except a few old timers who spent hours shooting the breeze, used the diner. In need of remodeling, the building stood between two vacant overgrown lots.

My car, an old Plymouth Fury, sat parked in the shade down one side of the building on the delivery driveway. I lifted one foot onto the rear fender, lit a Lucky Strike, and blew a long stream of blue smoke into the air as I reached inside my jacket and pulled my cell phone out. Thumbing in the number, I waited several seconds before I heard a familiar voice.

“I thought you might call back. I take it you want the job?”

“Yes. Can I ask you a question first? Will all the properties be empty…I mean, like, there won’t be anyone living in them, will there?”

She came straight back at me. “Young man, there is a perfectly good reason why you will be called upon to work on the properties I assign to you. At no time will anyone get hurt as long as you follow your instructions. Our clients have one thing in common. They have been hurt in some way by other corrupt people or involved in some kind of personal tragedy. Most of them want the insurance money to resolve their problem.”

“I take it we will never meet,” I said, “but I would like to know how you get these clients. I mean…you can’t advertise so how do they know where-?”

“It is none of your business, young man. All I can assure you is as long as you follow your instructions to the letter, you’re not going to get caught. Are you ready for the next job?”

I said I was, still a little uncomfortable but reassured by her answer.

 “What if I get into trouble?” I asked.

“You have a new number to ring for each job. You will receive that number in the post before each current job comes up. Memorize it and don’t carry it on the job.”

With that the line went dead. I rang the number back and an electronic voice told me the line was no longer in service.

***

“Johnny, Fedex left your money!”

Smitty’s excited voice reached me on the back stoop as I read the sports page of USA Today. The Buffalo’s latest buy was creating a lot of interest. Smitty’s news was a whole lot more interesting.

“Here.” The screen door squeaked as he pushed through it, waving a small brown envelope like a flag. Still dressed in his underpants, as always before noon, dirty white T shirt and flip flops that clattered on the wooden deck, he was still munching on a mouthful of toast. His unshaven face was thick with 24 hour shadow. He only shaved every three days. ‘To save money, ‘he once told me, but I knew different.

I ripped it open and as before there was a letter inside. This time though, there was also one thousand dollars in two thin wraps. One was marked expenses. I opened the letter and was surprised to see a marina address. In the bottom of the envelope was a key. Smitty peered over my shoulder.

“Friggin hell, man, you gonna’ torch a damn yacht?”

The address was in Washington at a marina along the Puget Sound near the ferry terminal at Bremerton. Like the first job, Firefly gave me precise instructions. I read them through a couple of times and was happy that there was nothing about being on the job a couple of days early or that I should be alone, although common sense said otherwise.

“Okay,” I said, “let’s take a ride and see what the place is like and where the boat is.”

An hour later we left and after stopping to pick up gas, joined the ‘five’ at Portland.

***

Bremerton marina was a large new site with over two hundred berths and several millions of dollars’ worth of boats. It stood a hundred yards from the ferries’ main docking ramps. The other side of the terminal, three aircraft carriers were towering over the navy shipyard; two decommissioned and being scrapped and another in for a refit. Firefly gave me a lot of information about the area, including the address of a motel that didn't ask questions of its guests. I guessed that was because it was a Navy town.

We were standing on a large open concourse looking down on the marina. Several owners and sailors were busying themselves around their boats. Two yachts, one large, the other a small open two crew weekend craft were making their way slowly out of the complex to open water. I pointed to one of the gated entrances.

“That’s the gate. We have to walk all the way around the perimeter until we reach the outer barrier. The ‘Sea Chaser’ is the one moored at the end, nearest the opening into the Sound. She’s a forty footer; white with blue piping around the upper hull. The cabin will be left open for me.”

I couldn't see her but assumed that the following night she would be there. My biggest worry did not concern setting the fire. After lighting the fire, my instructions were to steer the boat out of the marina and aim for open water where the ‘Sea Chaser’ would blow up.

“Come on, Smitty, let’s go get a burger and then find the motel. I want to come back tonight and check if our disguise works.”

“What disguise?”

“You’ll see. Part of my instructions so you’ll have to be dressed the same if you’re coming.”

Smitty nodded. “I take it you’re not supposed to go anywhere near the place until tomorrow. She’ll get mad with you if she finds out. That grand is coming in useful if it’s regular. I don’t think you should do anything to annoy her.”

Smitty was worried about the money. I was worried about details someone else had arranged that I had to blindly follow. I needed to trust Firefly completely if I was to continue working for her and making some little checks of my own would'nt hurt as long as I was careful. The gate lock needed checking and the walk to the outer wall might have obstructions blocking me. It would be handy to know an alternative route, if there was one.

“Don’t worry about the money,” I said. “We need to make sure we are around to enjoy it.” I pointed to some stairs leading back to the bus terminal and street. “I saw a great burger place up there. Come on…let’s eat.”

We walked up the steps and I felt a moment of excitement as my fingers dove into my jean pocket and pulled out a fifty.

To be continued…

Revenge - a short story by Anna Zhigareva

Anna Zhigareva wrote this story a while back and when I read it I really got into it. It is well written with no unnecessary padding; each word is important to keep the story moving forward. The descriptive work is stunning in places and the conclusion unforgettable. I will be posting more of Anna's work later.

Growing up, my family travelled and lived all around the world, but New Zealand has always been the place I feel most at home. Writing has been a passion ever since I hit year five, and I'm hoping to keep writing in the future.

REVENGE - copyright Anna Zhigareva 2014

You never think it’s too late until a gun barrel is pointed at your forehead. His index finger curls menacingly around the trigger and you pray for it to end already. You never forget his face. Distorted through your bloodied tears. You do not flinch as his finger closes in on the trigger and the bullet plunges deep into your skull, penetrating the serpentine-like nerves of your brain. You do not feel pain. Instead, you freeze for a split second as if blinded by a bright flash of light, and then you rock back and fall like a solid statue onto the flat cold ground. Only, unlike a statue, you do not shatter. You lie there, immobile with shock, as the dawn creeps up from behind the grey blinds covering the window and illuminates the room in clear yellow stripes, as if someone had purposefully sliced it with a knife. Scars don’t heal.

 ***

 I still don’t know how exactly I survived. Survived the straight shot to the head, survived the fourteen years rotting away in the grey, old prison South of London. And how I then survived the six years of working in the dark, damp, rat-filled basement of an old schoolmaster, now turned pickpocket. Oh, and quite a business he had himself there. What was my job, you may ask? Not pick pocketing. No. I wasn’t allowed outside at any time apart from the early morning, when there was still little people out on the streets, so no one could see my dehumanized face. No. I stayed in the basement, suffocating during the day, and freezing during the night. The evening wind drifts would especially irritate me.

 I was a carpenter. Nothing to do with pocket picking, as you may have thought. Well, the old schoolmaster had established himself pretty generously, I guess. His hobbies, as he would call them, would include rather varied things, such as, as you already know, pocket picking, carpentry, and then there was the third one. He liked hiring…disfigured people, like myself. There was Dylan the famous one-eyed, crooked-nosed ex-pickpocket. Not so ex, huh? Then there was Bob, who worked alongside me, though only night shifts, carving beautiful ornaments onto the chairs I had made earlier – he was missing a leg, the details of which were vague; Kyle, a serious young man with ambitious plans and four fingers on his left hand – this didn’t stop him from pick pocketing wallets on the most crowded street in London. Yes, everyone on Oxford Street knew of him, and yet no one acted to stop this injustice towards their determined work ethic and hard-earned money. Now, only one more addition to our little business. Rory, not quite a child, not quite an adult. A seventeen-year-old foster-home-raised ginger, who visited the basement every Sunday to deliver knew supplies on his rusty old Chevy. This was how we got the needed intake of wood supplies as well as carving tools, and sometimes even food. Some days, we had to go hungry, for working most of the day left us no time for personal pleasures, such as hygiene, but most importantly food. Frankly, there was no money to go and buy it with either. We depended on Rory.

I will not bore you with this long tale of how I worked in the basement of a slightly crazed old schoolmaster any longer. We will move on to the important part. The part, where I showed what I had been hiding all those years. Fourteen years in the rotten prison cell, six years in that filthy basement, and five months finalising and getting ready for what I would do to… Twenty years and five months. Twenty years, five months and three days precisely. A long time for a man to work out his rights and wrongs, to seek and receive forgiveness from God for sins he did not place, crimes he did not commit. A long time for a man to plot and finalise a spiteful revenge for that one person whose face he never forgot.

 ***

 He used to work in a coal mine, after serving in the war. He had three children, all of which had gone off to Europe to get a degree, unlike their lowlife father. His wife had died two years ago, of which I was sure, having visited the cemetery earlier this morning. It was inscribed, thin white letters over grey marble - expensive for a lower class worker such as him - "Here lies Elizabeth Crawford, devoted wife and mother to a loving husband and three children. Lost but never forgotten." Hah, loving husband. And below, in even smaller, thinner letters, white over grey, “1919 – 1963”. People in the bars talked. They said it was heart failure. Personally, I thought she willed herself to death. Who could ever stand living with that beast, that monster? Not Elizabeth. I knew her. My precious Elizabeth, she had been everything to me, and he had taken her away. With her, he took my soul, my feelings, my desire for anything in this corrupted world. He took away my passion, my love and my ability to feel any sort of emotional pain. They said he went mad after her death – quit his job, bought a new house, shut himself out, but I could never believe that. No, that man was incapable of loving, just like he had made me incapable of feeling.

I knew the part of town he lived in, the street, even the house number. You may wonder how. As I said before, people talked. And they talked a lot about him. Some sympathized, some downright hated him. I would classify as the latter, even though I chose not to voice my opinion in public. No need to attract unnecessary attention from the wandering eye of the crowd. I was not a man of chatter. I did not mingle well with the crowd. I had no care for their routine lives and miserable childhoods, nor had they for mine. I had not been killed by that single shot to the brain, because God, if he even existed, had given me a chance to go back and fight for what was right. All I needed was a minute, a minute to execute the plan I had been developing for twenty years, five months and three days. I knew everything to the finest detail. After all, what else has a man got to do in his rotting prison cell with no means of escape for fourteen years?

 ***

Let me tell you a bit more about my background. No, not mine. Ours. Mine and Elizabeth’s. I called her Lizzie back then. She was a sweetheart. The loveliest lady you could find in West London, and, frankly, I thought and still do, in all of London. She woke up every day at dawn and drew back the lace curtains she had so strongly insisted upon a few years back when we were renovating our house. Our house. Who did it belong to now? Some lowlife who had no care for the love we had had all those years ago. That’s right, why would he? He was probably just some ordinary man, passing through life as a paper boat would down a stream of fast flowing water. It would start out gracious and tall, beautiful in its simplicity, and gradually wilt like the petals of a flower or the leaves of a swaying tree in late autumn. As it came down the stream, sailing as fast as the current would push it, not able to turn back no matter how hard it would have tried, the fragile folds of the paper would unwrap and the boat would no longer be what it had appeared as a few seconds ago: a strong, perfect, confident figure now turned into a useless, softened, disfigured material. The paper would sink and be lost in the bed of the stream or be carried out to sea, the paper meanwhile steadily dissolving until it was nothing, not a single particle in this vast and bustling world. A world, where we do not have time to turn back and think of what mistakes we have made in life, and truth be told, we cannot turn back time, so it would be pointless trying.

As silly as my sentiments sound, the sinking boat is indeed the representation of a fast-whirling life gone by in a single blink of an eyelid. I have lived life. Not the life in prison; I do not count that as living. But the life I once had with Elizabeth – with my Lizzie. We would walk miles every day in silence, with not an aim in the world, apart from being together forever. The silence was never agitating, but comfortable in the sense of two people, that understood and loved each other to the extent of no words needing to be mentioned, enjoying each other’s company while the day was still young, as were they. If I had known how little time we had left together, I would have never made promises I could never keep, I would have spent every single waking moment of the day telling her how beautiful she was and how much I loved her, instead of making excuses every evening of needing to check on something at work or pick up some papers I had left there last night and then guiltily heading out to the bars to have a fun time with my mates. How could I have ever traded her for a few glasses of beer and pointless chat? I loved her, there was no doubt about that. I was prepared to spend all day with her, but I was also a selfish bastard. Self-centred and concerned about my reputation in the public. Who needed that reputation now? I should have cared less about my position in society, I should have never made dishonest excuses all those evenings I could have spent time with her and made her happier than she already was, I should have… I should have. A man never realizes his mistakes until it is too late.

It’s over for Elizabeth, but it’s not over for me. Yet, anyway. I cannot let him get away with ruining our perfect life, our perfect engagement that would have so easily turned into a marriage had he not driven her away from me. Lies. Lies is the only thing he is capable of. The human population is built on lies. How ideal would the world have been if no stranger ever killed a kind man willing to give him a ride to the train station and then have taken what money he had, having no care for the man’s wife and children waiting patiently, unsuspecting, at home; or a sweet old lady offering a homeless man to stay in her living room until he is able to find a job only for him to push her out of her own home? Goodwill. Goodwill has been slowly banished and replaced by mistrust and dishonour. Families torn apart, marriages sliced in half, children disgraced and innocent men locked up into filthy prison cells to rot the rest of their lives in. This was what the world had turned into. And it was exactly what he was capable of.

I’m sorry Elizabeth. Sorry I could not protect you. Sorry I made those stupid excuses. And sorry I did not fulfill the reason for my second chance on Earth earlier. I’m sorry it had to come to this.

 ***

 Twenty years, five months and four days. How I had waited for this moment. I dreamt of it every night in the cold dark prison cell of South London’s jail. Enclosure had served me a purpose, and I was intent on proceeding with what I had dreamed of all those nights throughout the past two decades. Only in the vague and shimmering reality of my dreams, the plan I had developed over the thousands of restless nights, when I could not close my eyes sheerly due to the adrenaline of blood pounding in my ears at the prospect of a possible solution to my suffering, never came to a satisfying conclusion. I long since had succumbed to the constant midnight howling of the wolves somewhere far away in the forests surrounding the prison, and the banging of the wrought-iron gates that isolated us criminals from the rest of the innocent – though not really so – population, had ceased to leave an endless clanging noise in the back of my mind long after the banging had stopped and the sun had risen.

This time, it would be different from the dreams. Dreams were just a premonition of what was to come. Your mind played tricks on you and you were so intoxicated in the sheer flight of this sub-reality that you played along with the close-reality fitting events that were really just a corner of your imagination. I meant to get it right this time. Proceed right through to the end. I would not back out. I meant to redeem myself, and I would. Who was I now to hesitate? Betray Lizzie all over again for a few nerves tingling in the back of my mind? I knew myself better than anyone else ever could, and I was going to leave a mark in this world, even if it meant throwing myself into the lowest and hottest layers of hell along with him. I had nothing to lose, nor had he.

 ***

He had an ordinary house. Solid and beautiful in its simplicity. Nothing peculiar about it. Nothing to say that a cold-blooded murderer rested behind those tightly framed windows and pale grey weatherboard. He lived in a friendly neighbourhood on the side of London. Everybody greeted you as you passed them, smiling sympathetically at your mutilated facial features, unaware of the history behind the half-closed eye that could barely see, the unnaturally upturned nose, the bulging forehead and the two angry red scars running across your temple and just above the right eyebrow. They were complete strangers, perhaps slightly too attentive, to an innocent-minded person. I, on the other hand, had seen things, knew that you could plaster a smile on your face and still carry out the most humiliating of all sorts of crimes. You could steal a wife, wreck a future, and shoot someone at dead-close range without a second thought, and live on happily, pretending nothing of the sort had happened, and that you were just an average man, going about your daily motions without much regret or aim.

Enough. I’d had enough. How much longer could he be?

I heard footsteps. They gradually grew closer, more profound, bold and heavy. I pressed myself up against the wet grey weatherboard – the rain had been pouring mercilessly throughout the whole morning, just like on that cold night in the loathed basement with the blinds closed over the shut windows, eliminating all possible sounds from traveling outside. As I drew in one massive gulp of a breath, preparing myself for what was to come, I watched a tall, clad in black figure round the corner of the street and walk purposefully towards the house. I deliberately did not step out right there and then. I awaited my moment. I knew when to strike. So far, everything had been going according to plan.

He walked past, as if not noticing me flattened out against the wall of his own home, and turned the key to enter through the front door. It was an oak door, did not penetrate sound. Good.

 My Mother once told me, “You cannot change the way things are, you cannot fight with fate, you have to accept things as they are and learn to cope”. I disagreed, and still do. Learn to cope when my only love had been forcefully pulled, wrenched, away from me? I could not, I would not accept the way things were. I would fight with fate if that was the last thing I did.

 I promised myself I would go and see my Mother in the hospital tomorrow. I had known she was there for many years now. Kyle had found out and told me. We used to be close, Mother and I. Dad never cared about either of us. He had left when I was nine; Mother had done the best she could on a limited income and I was grateful. I would see her. I wanted to see her. Apologise. Then I jerked at the realization: would this be yet another promise I could not keep?

The door shut. I moved out of my flattened position into what I supposed was a stealthy stance. Breathe. I walked towards the door. Knock. Silence. Another knock. He opened the door almost immediately this time. He was no longer wearing the black coat he had worn on the street to protect himself from the biting wind, but had on a warm navy blue sweater loosely pulled over a striped white office shirt and a pair of black trousers very similar to the ones I was wearing.

 “What is it?”

 He did not flinched at my face. His eyes were staring out over my head, as if deep in thought. Maybe he was revolted to look at me. Who wasn’t? I felt that way every time I accidentally saw my reflection in the windows I passed during the early mornings, when the lights in the shops were still switched off so that I could see myself as clearly as if I was looking into a mirror hung over my bedside table.

 “What do you want?”

 “Could I p-please use your t-telephone?” I stumbled over my words, as I had practiced all those long sleepless nights in the small prison cell. “I-I’m cold. I n-need t-to call my n-niece. Sh-she promised to p-pick me up at eleven, and s-still hasn’t arrived. Perhaps sh-she forg-got–” I worked on the chattering teeth just for affect.

 “Your niece must have a… Oh, come in. It’s warm in the house. I’m just making tea.” He beckoned me to enter and gave me a woolen jumper to warm myself while the pot boiled.

 “Th-thank you. You have a nice house. My niece must have forg–”

 He cut me off with an abrupt, “It doesn’t matter”, and quickly disappeared in the direction opposite to where we had initially come in from.

He had changed, his face now held the wrinkles of an aged man and he no longer had that pleasant smile he used to lure women with, but it was still him. I expected him to have shrunk in height and fattened around the sides, but despite his age he still carried himself as the officer he used to be, with pride and confidence. He walked as an officer was expected to, big bold strides that carried him to the other end of the room in a matter of a few short seconds. He showed no signs of weakening, no deteriorating of health. All the same, I was prepared for anything.

He did not remember me. And why would he? I was just another man in a long line of losers he had tripped upon their path to a greater life – an unfavourable soul in his little malicious black eyes.

I rolled up the sleeves of the jumper – no need to get it dirty – and walked over to the kitchen, where the water had by now boiled over. I moved quickly and quietly, careful not to jostle a cup or rattle a fork. I found it almost as soon as I opened the second drawer in a long line of them under the kitchen counter. It was perfect. The silver blade shone with the reflected light of the sun coming from the small window over the sink. It felt almost holy, though I knew it much more strongly resembled something of the contrary. I stood there for a moment, mesmerized in the devilish beauty of the knife, imagining it sinking deep into the flesh of the man I hated most on this Earth–

“I see you’re feeling better already.”

I whipped round, caught off guard, able to hide the kitchen knife behind me back before he noticed it. The surprise must have been so evident on my face that he smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile, and it reminded me of that rainy night in the cold basement. I closed my eyes, praying the memories to go away just this once.

“I wouldn’t want you to freeze to death, would I now, Mr. Rathbone?”

My eyes opened in a flash. He was standing a metre’s distance away, close enough to strike. But suddenly I felt my fingers go numb and I clutched the round handle as hard as I could, not able to feel anything, just to stop the knife from slipping out.

“You thought I wouldn’t remember you?” He smirked. I waited in silence, shuddering slightly as he neared me with that ghostly smile of his playing excitedly on his red lips, tantalizing, evoking in me a frightening feeling of dread. I remembered that red-lipped smile only too well. Blood red. “I thought so, too. Until you showed up on my doorstep.” I could feel my nostrils flaring as my breath caught somewhere deep down in my throat. It felt like I had frozen all over. I wanted to roll down the sleeves, but could not risk exposing the knife. It now seemed to weigh tens times its mass, a burden to carry, an unwanted consequence floating above my head like a thundercloud, ready to break out at any moment.

 “You killed her,” I murmured, unable to suppress a sob that escaped my quavering lips. “You took her away from me and you killed her.”

“No. It was you who did that. I gave her a life, children, a proper family, everything she asked for. You made her miserable.” Another smirk. “Did you think she never knew where you went off to after lying about needing to attend to some office work? Of course she knew. You thought she was stupid.” He shook his head. Then I saw his arm move from where it had been resting in his trouser pocket. I had not noticed it before. “You never understood her.” I watched as he pulled out a gun and pointed it at me. He stood so close that he could have pulled the trigger with close eyes and still hit the target.

I didn’t move. I stood there, frozen as a statue, astounded, shocked, wordless. The only thoughts that were running through my head were of that awful night when he took the last thing that mattered from me, my hope. What happened next can be called insanity – you may like to refer to it as that to cover up for the real emotional drive behind my actions – but I call it a final surge of power. All the numbing hurt and pain, which I thought had long since left me, built up in this last effort to avenge my lost love and all those wasted years of suffering. It drove me insane, it drove me away from people; I became a wild beast, just like him, covering it all with the fragile humanity I still had somewhere in me, just enough to do exactly what I came here to do, rid this suffocating world of only one single man – him. I could have found a cure for heart disease, I could have helped put an end to poverty, I could have made amends for all my wrongdoings. Instead, in a flash of mixed emotions I thought I would never feel again, I collided with the man standing in front of me, enough to unbalance his grip on the revolver, and thrust the knife into the centre of his stomach. He gasped and fell to his knees, red blood splattering from his mouth. For some reason I had thought it would be a darker red, signifying the devil he was inside, but no, it was as bright and rich a red as a sunset could sometimes be over the Thames river on a clear, crisp Autumn evening.

I grabbed the gun from under his leg and pointed it at his forehead, biting down on my tongue so hard that blood began to ooze down my chin. His face had paled and he stared up at me from where he was positioned helplessly on his knees. His eyes held that same unfocused yet present glazed expression I remember Elizabeth had had when I first told her I loved her. At first, I had thought she hadn’t heard me, so I had repeated it. She’d laughed and kissed me, and said she had simply been imagining how her life would had turned out if we had never met. We never talked of it again.

The sheer memory of her sent another jolt of anger mixed with regret through my body and, half not expecting it, I pulled on the trigger, sending a glass-shattering burst through the whole house. I doubt any of the neighbours heard it, or perhaps merely thought it was a champagne cork popping out of the bottle. But it deafened me. I stood there, unreasonably calm, a drowned ringing sound filling my ears. I stared down at him, sprawled over the kitchen tiles, eyes rolled back in a death glare so that only the whites were showing. I kneeled down and closed his eyes, a motion which seemed automatic to me had it been anyone else lying there.

I stood there for a long time, remotely aware of the time it would take for someone to notice that the lights were on but he was not in the house. I did not feel anger, remorse or hatred. He did not deserve any pity, but I could not give him hatred either. I had bestowed onto myself this great burden. I had fulfilled what I had come here to do. But for some reason I felt neither relieved nor satisfied. I hadn’t hesitated, I had carried the plan out exactly the way I had planned, with the exception of the gun, even better than in all those dreams put together. Why did I not feel anything; not sadness, not anger, not even an acute sense of relief that he was gone?

That was when I realized I still held the revolver in my hand. It was a pretty thing. Slick and black. More fitted for a lady’s hand than that of a man. I glanced once again towards him. It made me sick. I felt a chilly sense of wretchedness run through my whole body.

Then I lifted the gun to my head.

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