They look at each other in silence. She was leaving him to be with another and there wasn’t nothing he could do. She stands up and puts on her coat. Anthony watches her feeling shell-shocked as if he has suffered a horrific trauma. She gives him a curt nod and exits the restaurant. He watches the door close behind her as the snow begins to fall heavily outside. He glances around the restaurant to see if anyone witnessed his condemnation. No one even looks his way. Anthony leans back in the chair dreading what his life would be like now.
He opened the window so he could hear outside sounds. The cabin was still and silent.
He lay upon the top sheet, perspiring. He listened; there were no outside sounds. Old Buford was in the barn. Buford was his horse, and getting old. Buford was his horse, but so much more: his friend, companion, brother, mother and father, and something else thrown in. Buford was part of himself, and that part was dying. There was a sound outside; the wheeze of hard-coming death. He got up, pulled on his jeans, picked up his rifle, and went to see to Buford. It had all seemed so safe: a summer’s day, each contentedly bobbing about in water up to their necks. Thriller writer Albert Leighton floated with crime writer Di Glover. Jack Marks swam romantically with Lucy Walker: both wrote erotic fiction.
Suddenly, a scream – “Sharks!” Sure enough, a fast-moving shoal of agents, cover-designers, printers, editors and marketing experts hurtled towards them. The writers tried escaping but were no match for the predators. At the final count, Jack and Lucy had lost an arm and a leg each to the marketeers, while Di and Albert had each had £500 amputated by agents. A fellow writer was apparently having a little bother.
Maggie’s legs were giving her all sorts of bother. According to her doctor, one needed lots of rest, the other lots of exercise. “These legs of mine just seem to want to do their own thing quite independently of me,” she thought. “What am I to do?” Meanwhile, her legs were having a similar debate that she couldn’t hear. “Why do we accept this inferior status?” one demagogue yelled. “We allow torsos to dictate to us! It’s naked imperialism! It’s slavery!” “Agreed,” said another, “We need to form a union. We legs need to stick together!” And so they did. I came here three years ago because of the cheap rent.
I was in 1B, downstairs, but we had a flood and water covered the living room; the super put me in 2C. Someone moved out of 3E, so I slipped the super fifty bucks and he let me have it. A pay raise allowed me to move into 4A; don’t know what happened to the poor slob who got kicked out. I’ve cut back to one meal a day. Super says he’ll give me the “pent house” for an extra $150.00 a month. I’m moving up in the world! Vick Lorne seemed unafraid of anything. On stormy days he stood outside and shook his fist at the lightning.
Then came the night of the hurricane. Vick stood with his wife and children huddled at his feet, shouting at the storm, “Do your damnedest—I’m not afraid of you!” A large oak limb crashed through the ceiling barely missing Vick and family. Through the hole in the roof, the wind howled and other limbs twisted down toward him like angry, vengeful demons. “Come on!” he wailed like a frightened child. “Let’s go to the cellar before we all get killed! The brothers lived on the farm established by their grandfather. After their dad died, they stayed on with their mother in the three-room cabin, hardly more than a shack, and grubbed a living off the squalid farm. When their mother died, they still stayed on.
Deep in the woods country, the area was sometimes sought out by persons running from the law. Jason laid aside the binoculars. “Three mean-looking ones coming our way,” he said. “Armed to the teeth.” “They’ll be here directly,” said Wilson, cleaning his revolver. “Hope they don’t stop.” “Me, too,” said Jason, loading shells into his rifle. “Why are we even married?” The statement of concern came out much louder than I expected. If looks could kill. My wife swiveled 180 degrees and robotically walked out of the bedroom door into the living room.
I said to myself, “I am never going out there to apologize.” But the crying got to me. A nearly inaudible whimper turned into a loud wail, melting my defenses. As I walked out, I saw my wife sitting on the couch, arms crossed, with the same indignant frown, watching a girl cry on her favorite soap opera. Should’ve gone with Plan A. The three appliances cackled evilly. “Our plans are coming together!” the microwave hissed with glee.
“Indeed--world domination will soon be ours,” the toaster replied with a smile. “Weapons ready?” “I’ll fly to implant myself into unsuspecting victims,” the spatula snarled. “My spinning plate is sharp to behead,” the microwave stated. “And my flying bread will finish them off,” the toaster declared. The three prepared themselves, and sailed headfirst into combat. However, they forgot about the incessant hunger of humans. Within seconds, the appliances were overwhelmed with their usual, menial tasks. “Their appetites are killing US. Need Plan B--stat!” The curtains were drawn; the room was dark.
“Mrs. Grant, you are here today to communicate with your departed mother, is that correct?” “Yes, mother drowned tragically when she fell overboard on her cruise. They never found her body; I never got a chance to say goodbye.” “Let’s join hands and concentrate on trying to reach the other side.” Upstairs, Mrs. Grant’s daughter, six-year-old Gracie, impatiently waits to play a checkers game. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.” “Sweetie, I was supposed to be at another meeting, but I decided I’d rather play checkers with you.” “It’s your turn, Grandma.” There were once two young men madly in love with the same young woman. They urged her to make a choice as to which one she would marry. But this young lady, though she loved both young men, could not decide, for she loved the Love of Words more than either of them.
The young men pined away their lives and went to early graves, but the young woman lived to a ripe old age, writing numerous books, stories, and poems, and remaining happily wed to her beloved Love of Words, who mightily mourned her passing in her 99th year. Summoned into the Library, he looked around: two chairs, a desk, some pens, a leather-bound notebook. No books. On one chair sat an elderly figure, half monk, half grim reaper.
The figure indicated that he should sit at the desk. “Write.” “Write what?” “Your story.” “Where am I?” The figure waved. “This is The Library. Where we keep stories. And their authors.” “I see no books.” “The authors and their last book are in the walls.” “IN the walls?” “They’re all there: Shakespeare, Hemingway, Danté. And many stories you’ve never read.” “Why am I here?” “To write your last book.” |
"Classic"
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