L---- I---- of I--------
1-, J---, ---2
Dear
Dmitri Alexandrovich,
As I prepare to lay down my pen for the very
last time in this year of the Lord ---2, here amongst the beans and bees, I
recall the time when Garton, Sandy, Chivers and I were pursued through Kenya’s Burnt
Umber Highlands by a pack of the most brassica-breathed square-headed Huns that
Marlowe of the Foreign Office could ever grow to fear and send clean-limbed
Englishmen against; ill-prepared and disguised as an itinerant band of Romanian
Gypsy plasterers. Sandy was but a beardless youth in those days, on the very
verge of his manhood and more than half in the dark about what he had left
behind in the grey-green fields of Lancashire’s west coast; its fields as flat
as the local vowels and his potential for beauty and pleasure almost as high as
Blackpool’s iconic, ironic iron tower overlooking as it did the hope and
poverty of the lower classes as they drank and sandcastled their pitiful wages
away, wages they had sweated for and been bloodied with the work of a year; a
year of weeks of long cold days in mills and warehouses; manufactories, mines
and the offices of counting-houses. Chivers had once said (and how poignant it still
seems, even now as I recall it here amongst the beans and bees) in our early
days together at Oxford, struggling with Homer, Virgil, Sir Walter Scott, Scott
Tracey, Brains and the eaters of brains and a host of other cultural giants;
“W------,” he ejaculated, “I dreamed of you
again last night.”
“Was I dressed as a clown again this time,
old boy, or naked?”
“You mean there’s a difference?”
But I grow weary tonight, Dmitri, and I can
hear the scraping, the awful scraping that I can no longer ignore and fear, and
only wonder when my dear, late wife shall be with me again, despite the best
work of the embalmers and the Golden Child’s sweet promises in that magical
spring when my grief was young and the cyborg outriders of the Lazy B Ranch
rode into town.
I bid you goodnight, Dmitri Alexandrovich,
and wonder where you are; learning to perfect your art perhaps; not merely in
its mechanisms and its technicalities, but in the passion and the heart and the
spirit of what it offers to a world possessed by empty-eyed navigators,
bricklayers and, of course, by the Possessed themselves; G-d damn their empty,
soulless, bloodthirsty eyes.
Warmest regards,
W------.
The Scarlet Tower
Manhaven Reach
Ursula Minor
Migration Day, Second Spring, First Tide
of Perihelion, Age of the Coming.
Dear William
How are the thighs? Any hope of putting some
speed into them, as is days of yore when Fat Molly, Deekins Dewlap, the
estimable Reverend Sqeedley-Banksman and we two journeyed the length, breadth
and collar measurement of the Continent together, one step ahead of the
Frenchman and his ticking, creeping, dream-crushing dripping poxy nose; afraid
that each day that we would every one of us would awake as bowler-hatted voles,
never to see England again?
The puppet show is going well and, if I can but
persuade my honorable employer, Mister Themistocles Widdycobbler, to abandon
his obsession with creating the world’s largest albino corset, I shall then be free
to perform for all the folk in the castle our tale of the woodcutter’s son who,
for a year and a day at teatime was obliged by the Grand Vizier to mime a
well-known Elvish ballad narrating the hopes and ambitions of a little
Cro-Magnon girl trying to make it in the tough male-dominated world of jocks,
hard-bitten editors, and discharged (in so many ways) soldiers, and thus convey
in no fewer than nine, one thousand-page volumes her deep, agonized, eternal,
self-sacrificing love for an adopted, bulimic, bioluminescent trouser-wearing
teenage bear.
But I must hurry. They are coming and slow-moving
though they are; if I linger they must surely catch me at last. Happily, I have
jury-rigged a scattergun from abandoned prosthetics and scraps of abandoned
hosiery and P assures me that I have the fastest and best-adapted car in this
most deadly of possible futures; an Alpha Romero.
But one thing still puzzles me: why have
your words and deeds towards me always been of the tenderest and why have you
never disclosed, as once you promised, the identity of my parents and the
secret of my birth?
Regards,
Dmitri
Alexandrovich
L---- I---- of I--------
2-, ----ber, ---2
My
dearest Dimi,
What can any parent say, or do, once they have
launched a child into this world of pain and wattles? Only that I knew your
mother was trouble from the moment she walked into my grimy office on the corner
of Ninth and Maine .
From the moment my eyes crossed hers, taking in hair fit to make you weep and
legs that went all the way up and across and down the other side to Kansas
again, I knew our future held nothing but fear, mystery, and gradually slowing
thighs.
And your birth, son? All I can say is that the
Butler Yeats did it, who else?
From Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction challenge to write the end of an imaginary novel.
2 comments:
I'm not sure exactly what is going on here, but I love the word flow, the marbling of humour, and of course the characters' names.
Really enjoyed the read. :)
Why thank you again Steve. I'm just following the brief of the fast fiction challenge - to end a non-existent novel.
I looked up novel genres and decided to end 'em all.
Antinovel
Adventure
Bildungsroman
British regional literature
Campus
Comic
Crime fiction
Epistolary novel
Fantasy
Gothic
Historical novel
Horror
Industrial novel
Künstlerroman
Magic Realism
Metafiction
New
Paranormal
Picaresque novel
Proletarian
Psychological
Romance
Science fiction
Speculative
Social novel
Spy
Supernatural
Thriller
Westerns
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