|The Chair (Chap: 3) (standard:science fiction, 1755 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: Mar 21 2012||Views/Reads: 3267/878||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Bart has been charged with the responsibility of persuading a man, Tom Schofield, a noted physicist, to instead become a man of creativity. Bart is an unfinished character, brought to life by Tom's late wife, a best selling author.|
3 We stand together, our faces pushed against the icy wind coming in off the ocean. How brave, I consider, to go where he goes, his last crying faded to within himself. I know everything there is to know about Tom Schofield, so perfect had my creator written him down, and so easy had he come to the page; but how could she have known his anguish or the depth of the dry well that was once filled with his pride, his love for her. No matter that I stand here mute. This evening, maybe tomorrow, he will again come to the chair. For now I must remain nothing more than an idea waiting to be finished. Two hundred miles to the east, one hundred to the north snow is falling. Seventy two hours to the west, Christmas. I leave him, as my life does not yet weigh enough to keep me anchored. “Where the hell have you been, Bart the Fart?” Asks one of the Bentley twins “Out there, and must you always call me that?” “It's damn funny! Have you no sense of humor?” He responds, a smug grin crossing his craggy, almost prune like features. Alf Bentley, recognized from his twin only by a mole on the back of his neck from which two red hairs grow, sits back in the chair and flops his feet disrespectfully onto the desk. “Which one are you anyway? I still cannot tell you apart. Why our creator made you identical twins is a mystery. Even most so-called identical can be told apart but you two, it's impossible but for two red hairs!” Our creator often insisted that a good tale is both loving and inspiring, so I'm confused by the appearance of the Bentley twins. Even if our creator were having a bad day, these two cannot be visualized as decent human beings! Their low level wisdom should be diminished to one paragraph or better still thrown to the waste bin before the second draft! However, such energies, she wrote, connect with readers and it's evident that such distasteful characters often allow the reader to receive many kinds of information which, while not with the use of words is at best a physical energy. Energy is the key, she wrote. The Bentley's have energy alright. Sulphuric energy! Gwyneth, here from an incomplete story about elves, little angels, and holy beings, and other figures that appear as light only, sits on the floor of the study in demure fashion, biting her bottom lip. Whether this is to stop her laughing or because it is the universally acquired mannerism of beautiful women I'm not sure. Nor do I understand how my creator could bring together such beauty with such a pitiful monster as Bentley, whom the creator considered complete, is a mystery only she could have devised. What could have been her plan, I wonder? Alf Bentley belches and the aroma of last night's drinking washes over me. “You're disgusting!” I complain, slightly gagging and turning my head away to avoid inhaling anything more. “Oh com'on, Bart the Fart, we're among friends here! What's the deal anyway, is he going to co-operate?” “I don't know, his heart still buried in grief and I'm not helping. The insanity is torturing his mind.” “Look, Me and my brother were scripted to buy a failing launderette from where we could run our money laundering business. You told us you were the one who could bring him around!” “I think the launderette was tongue in cheek! Anyway, you and that brother of yours were in a first draft, there's nothing to prove that would be the case in the second, let alone in the final draft!” “Bull-crap! I knew you'd be too weak! Why in the name of good literature would we choose you as our go-between!” He belches again. The room is filled with sour ale. “We want that damn launderette!” Click here to read the rest of this story (129 more lines)
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