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Post by Vaughan on Aug 9, 2009 1:14:13 GMT
Well this is a bit embarrassing. Having taken up the mantle, Ian, I feel somewhat obligated to write a story of my own. I saw this post when it was made around 10:30 our time, and I had a good think.
I have to be perfectly honest here, I no longer write fiction. Like many years ago, back in school days, I wrote a bit. But there's been nothing for more than 20 years.
On the other hand, I mentioned in my introduction to the site that I had an outline for a horror novel ready to go. I just have to START. And while I have zero plans for fame, fortune, or even that other people might want to read it, it's the journey I was interested in - writing again. I will write the damn thing some time. Honest.
Anyway - I actually DID sit to write a story for this thread . A story inspired by the picture. I got a page done, and my head went wonky. It had all gone wrong, I hadn't thought it through.
So I played a game of FIFA 09 (if you don't know, don't ask) and while playing put my mind to work. My first story was about a time machine. It was bloody silly.
And then, I sat for 90 minutes and wrote my new story. Probably like many of you, it's a stream on consciousness thing. Sit and type, it'll all come out good in the end (I'm sure that works REAL well for a novel --LOL)
Anyway - 20+ years after my last fiction, fiction that no-one read because it was rubbish, I hereby offer up my entry to this thread!
I cant promise I'll ever enter any more of these, Ian, but to miss the first would have been damned rude.
Here you go people!
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Post by Vaughan on Aug 9, 2009 1:15:02 GMT
Jack Edwards felt old. Of course, he was old, 78 years old in fact. Thinking back they hadn’t just been 78 years, they’d been 78 long years, each one running for a hundred and four weeks, for twenty four months, or so it seemed. It was unimaginable that 78 years could last this long.
Every pain, every regret and all the grief – oh the grief - was etched into Jacks body, pummeling him down, making him shorter, slower, it was an effort to stand for long periods of time as though hands from his grave were reaching out and trying to pull him down. He’d have loved to have gone, too.
Death didn’t frighten Jack. He’d had enough of it in his life already, and everyone he ever cared for was on the other side now anyway. The first to die had been his brother, was it really more than fifty years ago? He’d been a good brother, rock solid, honest, trustworthy. He could still hear his brother saying: “I’ll help you, Jack! I’ll help you!” Because he’d help with anything, he could do anything. Jack on the other hand needed help, he was a little clumsy, a little shy. And then a terrible disease had gotten into his brother’s lungs.
Jack had sat on the edge of his brother’s bed, holding his hand, staring into his eyes: “I’ll help you, I’ll help you.” He’d said. And Jack had tried, running up and down the stairs, bringing tea, medicines, opening the door to the doctor. “I’ll help you, I’ll help you.”
His brother then changed. It seemed to happen all at once. One day Jack had gone into his room and sat on the bed as he’d always done, but when he looked into his brother’s face he could see the change. His brother’s eyes contained all the pain, all the fear imaginable. The face was covered in sweat, and there was phlegm in his throat that he couldn’t clear. His brother had wanted to cry, to shed tears with the realization that this was never going to end. But he couldn’t, the grimace was tight, the jaw clenched.
So Jack cried for him. The tears streamed down his cheeks, dripping on their hands. Jack cried for the pain his brother was going through, for his own grief, and most of all because he knew he’d let his brother down. He’d said he would help him, but this disease, this fever, was all on the inside. You couldn’t see it, touch it, fight it, command it. Jack watched his brother die, and part of Jack died with him.
Jack had then locked himself away for a while, weeks. He’d failed his brother, after all the times he’d been helped, when it came time for Jack to reciprocate he’d not been up to the task. Had he caused his brother’s pain, was there something else he should have done? Why hadn’t he done more, why hadn’t he been able to cure him, to ease the pain? It ate into Jack, once again Jack had not been good enough, smart enough. “I’m sorry.” He’d say in his sleep, “I’m so sorry.” But his brother had never answered him.
Jack’s parents were devastated, and within a year the grief had killed his mother. They said it was a heart attack, but Jack knew. She had given birth to her son, bathed him, clothed him, and allowed him out into the world. And then he had come home and she had bathed him, clothed him, and cared for him again. Jack had helped, but there was a special bond between mother and son. Jack had felt it too, and with the death of his brother, his mother had lost the will to live. So Jack had lost her too.
Jack had started working with his father even before his brother had died. There was a family business, an antiques business attached to their house. It was a small store and his father was well thought of. Jack respected his father, but love didn’t come into it. His father was a piece of stone, practical, a straight line. If Jack had hoped to get help from his father he was to be disappointed. Jack’s father took his grief and stored it away in his head, in his chest, in his limbs.
They’d never talked about Jack’s mother, nor his brother. Not because his father didn’t care, but rather because his father had lost the very thing that made him human. His ability to share had gone once his only confidant had left. He just didn’t know how to talk, communicate, how to be heartfelt and weak. It just wasn’t done.
So Jack worked with him in the antiques shop, and just having him close was enough. It was love by proximity. They lived together in the same house, started work together each morning, worked in the store during the day. They were close, and yet they never ever discussed things of a personal nature. Jack wondered if his father blamed him for the death of his brother, and the subsequent death of his mother. He wished they could speak about it, but it just wasn’t done.
That was all twenty years ago. One morning Jack had waited at the bottom of the stairs for his father to come down. But he never did come down. Jack’s father died in his sleep. He’d been told it ought to give him comfort, knowing there had been no pain, that his father had died peacefully. He’d agreed, but he wasn’t being truthful. Jack was now alone in the world. He’d been alone for twenty years. He’d let his father die too. Jack wondered what he should of done, why hadn’t he died first. But Jack didn’t know how to die. He could never take his own life, life was what you did. You soldiered on, you had you friends around you. No, you waited for death – but it never came for him, only for those he’d loved.
Jack kept the antiques shop. He was sitting behind the desk now, half glasses on the end of his nose. He should have sold up and retired years ago he’d been told, but what was the point, where would he go? Every day he’d suffered some anguish, some memory that had surfaced and once again wrenched at his heart. After all these years he’d hoped he’d have found a way to dismiss them, to set them aside – but he hadn’t. Jack still cried some nights, the oppression of his own company building up and then folding in on itself, building up and folding in on itself. Why had he been spared?
The store had kept his mind active for a while, but even that had slowly died around him. The antiques had gotten older, and so did Jack. The customers got younger. They demanded a lot, wanted good service, low prices, and were very specific about what they wanted, ‘Love the drinks cabinet, but those knobs, I don’t know, it doesn’t really work – you know? Have you got anything with a more classic knob, and maybe a little smaller and wider, a touch darker with a nicer grain?’ Give him strength, give him patience.
He’d resisted, of course. Ego, pride, call it what you will, but for a time he’d get annoyed, and once he even asked a customer to leave his store: ‘Sir, you wouldn’t know quality if it were stamped on my forehead. Get out, get out!’ Jack wasn’t a mean man, far from it, but sometimes he just wanted to sit and wait. Wait for something. Wait for closure. Wait. Waiting.
Things only got worse when the public, the general public, began to go to auctions. They went just for the fun of it, the fun! He began to see people who quoted how much an item would cost at auction and ask for a discount! Worse, books began to be published aimed at his customers, beware of this, beware of that, look for something else. Television shows had hosts that knew more than Jack ever had. Jack’s special knowledge of antiques became antique in and of itself. No-one cared anymore.
So this final piece of life, this last remnant, this final vestige of his family had died too. No-one came, there was no money, no savings. Jack looked down at the letter in his hands, it was over, all over. He hadn’t been able to keep things going, Jack was tired, and cursed with good health.
What would happen when they came? Would he open the door and let them in, or would he sit there with the door locked, forcing them to break the glass in the front door to gain entry? No. Jack had seen enough violence, enough grief. Jack had seen everyone else in his family die, and he would be here when they came to close the store for the final time, to take the keys away from him, to put him out on the street.
Jack turned his head and looked around the store for the final time. Cabinets, mirrors, chairs, candelabra, an old door leaning against the wall, all sundry. All antiques, all old and unwanted. Like Jack. And Jack didn’t want anyone else, just them, and they had been taken from him.
Death was the only thing he feared, he had seen it in many guises, ravaging a young body, breaking a good heart into two, and suffocating even when asleep. Death was secretive; you couldn’t see the evil things growing inside you, the tiny tears and ruptures – not until it was too late. Except for Jack. Jack had not had to take a single day off work for fifty years. He wasn’t fit, wasn’t athletic, he – unique among his kin – was just genetically adjusted to survive. It was a curse.
Jack lowered his head into his hands, God, here come the tears. His chest tightened, his shoulders quivered, shook, and he sobbed. What was he going to do? No home, no shop. He would now be completely alone, without even his surroundings, the memories, the reminders.
The sobs gave way, Jack wiped the tears from his face and took a deep breath. He didn’t want the men to see he’d been crying, they didn’t want to see the pain they were causing, an old man crushed. No, he would smile, welcome them in, bid them well.
Jack waited. He’d been expecting them at midday, but it must be a long way passed that now. Oh well, perhaps they’d been delayed, he was sure they had to visit many people in a day, it must be tough work. He’d sit in the store until they came, leave the door open. When they arrived, he’d offer them a cup of tea.
Tap tap tap.
Jack raised his head to look at the front door even before he’d fully registered what the sound was. He thought it was someone knocking. He swallowed but his mouth was dry. “The door is open.” He said.
Nothing. No-one came in, no-one looked through the glass. It was getting dark, and the street lights were on outside. Jack should have seen the silhouette of someone at the door, but he didn’t. Strange. Jack simply sat, mind wandering back to his family.
Tap tap tap.
A second time. Again Jack, reflexively, called out, “The door’s open!” Looking up he saw, once again, that there was no-one there. Was he losing it? Jack felt like his normal self, just the usual ache in his back and shoulder. Now he was hearing things.
Where had the men gotten too? If they weren’t here soon Jack wondered what he ought to do. Losing everything was a horrible, terrible thing, and suddenly he found himself thinking of ways of keeping them out. What if they weren’t here before closing time? He could lock the front door, couldn’t he? He could hold on to his family’s memories for one more night. Stay at the bosom of his mother, father, and brother.
He knew they wouldn’t change their mind. Perhaps he’d gotten the wrong day? He took the letter from the envelope and read it again. No, the day was correct. Jack simply had to keep waiting.
And as he waited that great knot formed in his chest, that knot that wrung more tears from his eyes, reducing him from a man to a boy again. He’d failed everyone, he knew that. His father would have been mortified at what was happening. But Jack couldn’t keep things going, he’d simply been waiting, waiting, waiting. He just wasn’t as smart as his father had been, didn’t have the drive of his brother. And now it had been 78 years, 78 long years. Waiting forever, and waiting.
Tap tap tap.
“The store is closed!” Jack said, surprised by his own defiance. “You cannot come in! This is my family’s home. This is my family’s business! All I have left of them is this shop, this house! And I won’t let you have them, I won’t!” He braced himself for the thundering response from the men who must come, the bailiffs and police. But there was silence, just the faint echo of his own words dying on the antiques. No-one entered the store.
He knew now that he couldn’t let them have the store. He couldn’t move out, he couldn’t give up. He was the last one left, so he alone had to speak for them all. Jack couldn’t imagine doing otherwise. “I won’t,” he said. “I can’t.”
Then he heard the rattle of the door handle. He wanted to look up, to look into their eyes. But despite his bravado he knew he was too weak. He knew he wouldn’t fight back. They would come, they would take everything. The tears were welling again, coming up from his stomach in waves. And he heard the door handle slowly turn, and the creaking sound of the door opening, slowly. He felt the faint hint of a breeze sweep around his feet. He continued to look down, waiting for the orders, waiting for demands.
“I’ll help you, Jack. I’ll help you.”
Jack breathed in, paused for a moment and closed his eyes.
“I’ll help you, Jack. I’ll help you. Come on Jack.”
Jack looked toward the front door, startled, “How did you….” The words trailed off. The front door was closed. There was a faint sound of a van coming down the street, the notes of faint music getting louder. They were coming, but they had yet to reach his door.
“Come on, Jack. I’ll help you.”
Jack felt warm. At these words he turned his head to the right. The antique door, the door that had been lying against the wall, was open. His brother stood there, holding out his hands. Behind him, just to the left, he could see his mother and father standing together, smiling.
“Come on, Jack. I’ll help you.” His brother said.
Jack rose, and moved toward them.
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Post by Vaughan on Aug 9, 2009 11:14:37 GMT
You're way too kind. But it's appreciated.
And that's my first Karma! Woo hoo!
Still, given my return from retirement (--LOL-) I need to be inspired, rather than inspiring.
So I'll hold off starting a new thread right now. It's probably not a good idea to have hundreds of threads going at once anyway, especially since there's only one story up at the moment. (where is everyone?)
I'll await the next picture, and see if I get inspired again.
You crazy lot.
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Post by Vaughan on Aug 10, 2009 15:23:25 GMT
Thanks for the comments, Walkingdude. Horror is, fortunately, a broad canvas - isn't it. I refer you to this thread: britishhorrornovels.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=gener&action=display&thread=308Which garnered an emphatic response. ;D I think you'll find my comment there disappointing to say the least. As for this story.... it's a first effort, but I can tell you what was in my mind...... The background to my story - The Door.Firstly it's a horror tale in that the guy slowly dies out of loneliness and shame from losing the family home and shop. There are a couple mentions of his health being a 'curse', which points to suffering through life, and wanting death. The first scene I envisaged was of the door opening and the brother coming out. I started from there - working backwards as it were. The questions that came to me were: - Why does the brother come back?
- What does the brother want?
- Based on these, what is the relationship between the brothers?
A couple other things... I had to figure a way to make at least one character sympathetic. That would take time - and since this is a short story, it meant this person had to be my Central Character (CC). So is the brother at the door going to be my CC? I decided no. No reason for that, I just decided I didn't want to tell his story. I quickly settled on the essential plot (I'm obviously skipping some steps here, the conception and writing of this one was perhaps two and half hours in total). Once I had the plot - I just needed to create sympathy. I also needed to provide a back story that introduces and ties the characters together in such a way that the final scene made sense in the context of everything being written. I ended up with: - Close brother bond, ended early by illness.
- One weak brother, one strong - it's the strong one that dies.
- One mother figure who does what the weak brother feels he ought to do - but can't.... she dies from grief.
- One father who binds the entire family (even has work for the weaker son) but who cannot counsel the weaker brother, ensuring the weaker son remains weak.
All that was left was: a) Introduce the characters; b) Introduce their relationships; c) Ladle on the sadness - good and thick to get sympathy for CC; d) End the damn thing. And there yah go. Once you have these things in your mind the story writes itself. Took an hour to come up with the plot, and 90 minutes to write. I've tried to edit the thing twice since then. Afterwards, once it was complete - in fact a day later - I was laying in bed, excited like a schoolboy because after so many years I'd actually written something, when I realized what the source for this thing was. Totally subconsciously, I might add. I'm not going to mention what that is. Well, maybe it's not the inspiration, but it's certainly something deep in the recesses of my mind that transcribes quite well. Still, I'm not ashamed of that at all. This isn't a copy. I never really thought if it was horror or not. It has ghosts in it, so I suppose I'd say - 'Yes, it's a horror tale.' But it's a ghost tale set in a very human story, with (I hope) a very sympathetic and human man at the center. In this case the ghosts aren't evil and malevolent, they're caring. The evil is the bailiffs (whom the CC can't even bring himself to hate) and the outside world, and perhaps more importantly, isolation and loneliness. Coming up with the idea, filing it through a series of thought processes, and coming up with the structure was the most interesting part. Writing it was mechanical. Editing it boring. So there you have my approach. As you can see, I'm an expert. ;D I'll end by saying this. Looking back now I could make this story much tighter. Here's how: Do away with the second brother entirely. Switch his character for the father. Now it's the FATHER who missed his son and wife. If I did that I wouldn't need the bailiff subplot at all - so all that could go. The rest would still work. You write much more than I do (I hope!) and I suppose there is never only one way to do things. I think it's okay as it is, but I can see ways of achieving the same effect by trimming. Man - what a load of words!
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Post by TheWalkinDude on Aug 10, 2009 15:49:21 GMT
you can indeed my friend, thats the joy of writing in my oppinion, that every story is flexile and you can have so many different ways of achieveing the same goal.
i did enjoy your story and as it is i wouldn't really class it as anything, the subject matter is so varied with the different view points you can take on the story. for example, the aspect of the CC being the sole survivor in his family, that all their deaths torment him for years and years. or, as you mentioned, the fact that society has changed so much that the CC cant make money and cant make ends meet finally being driven to the point where he would be tossed out on the street by an uncaring society.
in a sense this tale would probabaly meet lots of different genre's, at least i think it would. but it was a very heart felt story and i think it's fine as it is.
keep up the good work!!!
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