Author Topic: The author  (Read 3225 times)

xetog

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The author
« on: Nov 25, 2015, 03:23:12 PM »
The elderly man shuffled slowly into his sitting room cup in hand. Clad in tartan fleece pyjamas his daughter had bought for him on Amazon last Christmas.  Was it really a year since he had last heard from them?  He had received a similar present the previous Christmas and had little doubt a new pair would soon arrive by courier to replace the comfy, but threadbare set that currently clothed his limbs. Over it all was his favourite dark blue towelling dressing gown, a present from his wife Nineteen Birthdays ago.  Lovingly kept, but washed and washed until the depth of the blue was evident only to his eyes. His slippers were worn so that his big toes stuck out of the end, but it mattered little as he had almost no feeling left in his feet anyway.

On his hands woollen, fingerless gloves that his widowed next door neighbour had knitted for him just before she passed away, it must be over a year now. He wished somehow he had been kinder, but since cancer had taken his own wife some eight years before, he found it difficult to prevent the irascible element of his character becoming his normal face to the outside world.  Joyce next door had been so kind in those early days following the loss of his own dear wife, but he had been too bitter at the loss of his soulmate.  He saw understanding and compassion as some sort of takeover bid and reacted accordingly.

Standing still for a minute, unsure of his balance fighting to keep the cup of boiling hot tea steady in his shaky hand, he looked slowly around the room which badly needed some redecoration the wallpaper years out of fashion, as were the few items of furniture that he had not given away to the charity shop because they got in the way.  One chair, a recliner that was loved by Betty in red Draylon, now worn and no longer reclining, but he would never want to change it.  A cantilevered table with a Formica top and wheels that could be drawn over his knees was his lifeline.

The carpet had been paid for by his son in Dubai a few years back when the old wool one had eventually worn through to the hessian backing, now the new Draylon was wearing into a rut between the door and his chair.  The Teak sideboard, thick with dust, contained most of his possessions, mainly papers.  He had got rid of all the now unused crockery and glass that Betty had stored there.  It had made his daughter Doris angry because she felt that some of them were heirlooms, but what use did he have for heirlooms?  A man from the house clearers had given him £300 for the lot and he was pleased to have the money to spend. Doris raged that some of the pieces were worth hundreds alone, but he remained unmoved by her ire and she stormed off back to Birmingham to a townhouse and the kids, not to be seen from that day to this.  She still sent a card on his birthday and a pair of fleece pyjamas for Christmas and that was enough.

The fireplace was empty and cold, no fire had been laid there since a hot coal had rolled out, setting light to the carpet whilst he was asleep and only the ‘lucky’ presence outside of the postman had saved him from a fatal conflagration.  The luck however had two faces, because the rare communication was a huge bill from the electricity company that he could ill afford.  The hot coal had placed the final nail in the coffin of the old carpet however and Derek had coughed up for a new one and paid a large part of the electric bill.  Someone had alerted the Fire Brigade and the open fire had been condemned without any suggestion how he might keep himself warm in future.  He was moved to tears when a couple of kids from down the road had bought him round a little electric fan heater  “Dad says he was going to sling it out mistah, but heard you might have a home for it.” He couldn’t afford the electricity to run it, but it was the thought that mattered.

Next to the recliner was a large round leather pouf where he rested his feet when he wanted to sleep,  Curled up on the pouf was the current love of his life Betty.  In reality a Jack Russel that he had christened rather obviously 'Jack' almost 13 years ago.  In error it turned out, because Jack was in fact a Jill.  Jill remained Jack however until he had realised that he was talking to her just like he used to chat with his wife when she was alive, so soon Jack became Betty without seeming to mind.

On the table sat his lifeline with the outside world, his one indulgence, a red Toshiba C855 laptop purchased with the money from the contents of the sideboard and a cheap broadband package paid for by Derek in anticipation of Skype calls that somehow never materialised.  He had found on the web a group of like-minded pensioners, although most junior to his 90 years.  They had turned out to be his real friends, always there when he was low with a cheerful word or two.  With their aid he had become an author and had now written hundreds of short stories. All of the genre called Space Operas, mainly featuring his accident prone spaceman hero Jack Russell.  He had even sold a few to an SF mag called Future Worlds.  Payment was only about £50 for a story, but that never worried him, he was published, an author, better late than never.

One Sunday last month he had passed out and Betty’s frenzied barking had alerted his new neighbours, a nice young professional couple who had used the spare key to enter and called an ambulance.  After tests, a very young doctor had told him that he was suffering from an aneurism that was leaking.  It was not serious at the moment, but surgery would be essential as soon as a slot was available in the operating theatre.  Until then, they would find him a bed.  He had refused and signed himself out as he had other responsibilities and only yesterday he had received an appointment for the 12th of next month in the post, but he was not inclined to go.

He sat down, placing the cup shakily on the table.  Something had changed and he no longer felt cold, a warm feeling emanating from his chest could only mean one thing.  He moved slowly across to the chair and sat breathing in slow laboured gasps as blood escaped into his chest cavity. Betty sensing his distress moved her head to his lap and he, with effort raised his hand to stroke her head, but it slipped off to hang by his side.  Betty gently gripped the hand in her mouth and moved it back on to his lap.  His heart began to beat rapidly as it was starved of life sustaining fluid.

He smiled as he recognised those he loved coming to collect him at last.  Eventually the beat in his chest ceased.

 The dog began to howl.
If you want to control peoples thoughts, first control their words.

zoony

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Re: The author
« Reply #1 on: Nov 25, 2015, 04:03:53 PM »
Nice one Mike. Big thumbs up. Nothing like a cheery story with a happy ending. ;D ;D
"Listen to the wind, it cleans the mind."

"Never use money to measure wealth, son"

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stellamaris

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Re: The author
« Reply #2 on: Nov 25, 2015, 11:26:54 PM »
That was really so good Mike. Beautifully written.  Held me right up to the end and I was still thinking on it.  That is until Zoony spoiled it all by making me laugh out loud. Ah well, laughing through my tears isn't all bad. ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D
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zoony

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Re: The author
« Reply #3 on: Nov 25, 2015, 11:30:11 PM »
Don't go all Pagliacci on us Spud. I agree Mike, lovely, sad story. Sorry 'bout the quip.
"Listen to the wind, it cleans the mind."

"Never use money to measure wealth, son"

                                           cowboy wisdom.

Citizen68

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Re: The author
« Reply #4 on: Nov 26, 2015, 01:11:29 AM »
xetog, that was a good story. Must have taken you age to type all that!

xetog

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Re: The author
« Reply #5 on: Nov 26, 2015, 09:12:31 AM »
C68.  First time I have written a short story from scratch.  Though of it at about 09.00, started writing at 14.00 and posted at  15.23.  Must try it again.

Mike
If you want to control peoples thoughts, first control their words.

Scrumpy

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Re: The author
« Reply #6 on: Nov 26, 2015, 12:25:58 PM »
aww!!  That was beautiful.. So very sad ..but then again not.. That is the way to go..I now worry about Betty..
Everything will be alright in the end, and if it’s not alright, its not the end.

xetog

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Re: The author
« Reply #7 on: Nov 26, 2015, 12:32:42 PM »
So do I Scrumpy.  In my first version I had him leave the kitchen door open so that Betty could get out, another idea was to have the dog die as well, but that proved difficult in 1200 words, so I left you suspended (Knickers and all!)

Mike:-)
If you want to control peoples thoughts, first control their words.

Scrumpy

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Re: The author
« Reply #8 on: Nov 27, 2015, 10:18:57 AM »
So do I Scrumpy.  In my first version I had him leave the kitchen door open so that Betty could get out, another idea was to have the dog die as well, but that proved difficult in 1200 words, so I left you suspended (Knickers and all!)

Mike:-)

No,no don't turn Betty out..she will become a sad stray.. Let the neighbours take her..
Everything will be alright in the end, and if it’s not alright, its not the end.

Salbee

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Re: The author
« Reply #9 on: Jan 07, 2016, 11:19:34 PM »
Sorry, but what a stereotypical idea of a bereaved person. Had he been 21 would anyone offer him a dressing gown. His mates would take him out on the razz. I think this ones son would at least say, come on,dad, what shall we do. That would give the dad the chance to make the decision, even if dad says thanks but...

xetog

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Re: The author
« Reply #10 on: Jan 08, 2016, 09:12:26 AM »
Hi Salbee, nice to have a fresh pair of eyes on things, so welcome.  Yes my old man is a stereotype, but that is the fate of many elderly people, discarded and forgotten by their families and all their friends passed away. Families are smaller and more dispersed these days and the elderly just become an extra burden and out of sight is out of mind.  What you say about if he had been younger is undoubtedly true, but sadly for many, my stereotype is typical.  Anyhow, many thanks for the comment.

Mike

If you want to control peoples thoughts, first control their words.

zoony

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Re: The author
« Reply #11 on: Jan 08, 2016, 09:22:02 AM »
Mike. May I add that what you described so poignantly is not only the fate of many older folk but a deep fear which only adds to their sense of loneliness and isolation. Such a dreadful end to what, for so many, has been a full, active and productive life. It's no wonder that so many take matters into their own hands.
"Listen to the wind, it cleans the mind."

"Never use money to measure wealth, son"

                                           cowboy wisdom.

crabbyob

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Re: The author
« Reply #12 on: Aug 02, 2017, 10:59:54 AM »
thanks for another well told tale
Betty is a master touch
“Life may not be the party we hoped for, but as we are already here we may as well dance”