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The Chair (Chap: 3) (standard:science fiction, 1755 words)
Author: CyranoAdded: Mar 21 2012Views/Reads: 3267/878Story 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.


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 

“Where the hell have you been, Bart the Fart?” Asks one of the Bentley

“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

“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!” 

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