View Full Version : A Storyteller.

Mr. Hyde
April 14th, 2006, 09:20 PM
Mr. Benson was a squat old man, with a bald head, pale grey eyes, a face full of white whiskers, and glasses that, had the lenses not been carbon, would be as thick as coke bottles. A man of traditional sensibilities, he tended to dress in what many would call formal attire, even when he was at home. The Saturday his story began, he was sitting in his study, black dress pants on, with matching black socks, a white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his dried skinned elbows, and a black tie dangling from his collar. Sitting at his desk, he was drinking a small glass of scotch, smoking a cigarette he'd rolled himself, and typing a story on his type writer. "Computers are too complicated," he'd always say.

He'd already replaced the ink ribbon, and type checked his keys, and he began to work out a draft of a story. It began like many of his stories....

The road stretched ahead into the golden horizon as a young woman paces wearily on her steed. Her robes were royal in a nature that spoke of a serene, and almost paradisical place, from which, her demeanor speaks that she can never return. Her hair, a sanguine complexion tied back in a pony tail, a pristine sword hewn from the very earth held at her side, she sighed slightly before lifting her chin as her father had taught her, and pressing forward.

There was a quality to Mr. Benson's work that made it seem as though he had been the person he was writing about, or at least knew this person in a way that no one else had. When reading his stories, believing that he created them, one almost felt that he was in love with each of them in a way that was neither paternal or romantic, but something deeper. Of course, like all Saturdays for Mr. Benson, there was a knock at the door, and it was his son-in-law, for whom he never cared. The son-in-law, a sleek thirty year old named Jonothan Mayweather, was there to deliver a birthday present for Mr. Benson. It was a small box, one foot long by one foot wide by one foot deep.

"There ya go, dad," he said, stumbling slightly at the word 'dad'. "I'm not your father, Jonothan. I've said before, either refer to me as Mr. Benson, or as Bishop. But thank you for the present," Mr. Benson replied. When Jonothan left, Bishop walked back inside, set the present down on the kitchen table, and opened it unenthusiastically. Jonothan was prone to giving him presents that were, in some fashion or another, digital or up-to-date, or modern. Bishop at first wondered, after having explained several times that he didn't fancy such things, if this was done out of spite, but then decided that they always made for nice presents to give his grandchildren.

After returning to his study, he sat down once more, and began typing again. The story continued....

The young woman, whose name is Rose, had come from Rewolf. The empire was only an empire in the sense that it was big, and had a central ruler. But, in all truth, the ruler was little more than a man with a scepter who rode in parades. Every province of Rewolf had elected officials who proposed rules or laws that those citizens would vote for. Those laws of course, for convienience sake for the whole of the empire, would then be presented to a regional presence that would vote, and if passed, would go once more to a sectional presence, before arriving at the King's hand to be decided on. More often than not, he simply signed it with his approval.

Down the road some distance, Rose noticed a young boy, alone and crying in a huddled position under an Ash tree. THe young boy had dark brown hair, glittering yellow eyes, and dark skin. Rose hadn't been far outside Rewolf, but she'd met ambassadors from all across the world, and knew well enough that yellow eyes were Nuseht Empire. This, of all things, being the same empire that had met Rewolf in battle, and promptly, albeit brutally, rent them asunder. Still, Rose was not an unkind woman, and in her gentile nature, took the young boy, whom she later came to know as Knoll, under her wing and care.

Bishop sat back a moment, and opened his eyes wide, staring across the room at a book in the corner. He often did this relax his eyes and prevent further blindness, but on this occasion, he retrieved it from the shelf, and let it fall open on a resting board that slid out of his desk. Lighting another cigarette, and taking a puff before washing the taste of smoke down his scotch, he looked at the pages that were as aged as he, moreso in fact, and he thought to himself, "There's something here I didn't notice before...but what?"

April 14th, 2006, 11:11 PM
I like how you have two stories fold into one. You're such a magnificent writer, Hyde. I can only wish for one thing....for you only to finish one to be published.

April 15th, 2006, 04:13 AM
Yes, "but what" indeed. Keep it going.

Mr. Hyde
April 15th, 2006, 09:14 PM
Bishop leaned closer to the pages, examing it closely, and muttered the words aloud. What he muttered sounded somewhat like jibberish, though it was ancient greek. THe entire book, written by an unknown individual, wasn't so old that it printed on paper. But it was a leatherbound book, hand crafted, with ancient greek written on every page, in pen strokes likened to a quill. There was an empty silence following the end of the page, and Bishop thought for a moment, that he was just an old man reading too deeply into something, or for that matter, too deeply into nothing.

He moved back to the chair and sat down to his typewriter again. Continuing the story, his fingers shifted strangely and the following passage rolled forth...

Rose traveled with Knoll for some miles, and long into the night. And while this child was, according to the declaration of war, her enemy, she couldn't bring herself to strike such a helpless lad. His yellow eyes bubbling in his innocent face, tears dripping down at odd moments. He evoked such pity that no man alive would've put him to the sword. Rose had built a campfire that night, and with the help of Knoll, who found himself courageous enough to gather firewood while she laid out a nice resting spot for them. But, the young boy, who had seemed so innocent, soon found himself awake in the night, and reaching slowly for the sword, killed Rose in her sleep. "Enemies," he whispered, "Are enemies, no matter how kind, or how young."

Bishop stopped at once after reading those last lines. "Hmmm," he mouthed. He pulled the paper from the typewriter and hooked his left eyebrow at it. He'd never done that before. In fact, he'd never typed a story with a child killer, and never a story with a woman killed. He set the paper down and took another puff off his cigarette. Then looked at his glass of scotch that was now just an empty glass. He rose to grab to walk to the kitchen and pour another glass, but something from the corner of his eye caught his attention. To his right, there was a young man sitting in a chair.

The young man wore a black suit with a black shirt and tie, his jet black hair was tied back in a pony tail, and he was wearing a pair of sunglasses that rested on his nose. "Well, here I am." the young man said, his voice clear and sharp, as though he'd said it was practiced bravado. The young man had his left leg crossed over his right, and his hands were resting on his knee. On his left ring finger was a golden ring with several gem stones imbedded. Two emeralds rested below a ruby, which was likewise below an emerald, and in between two more, forming a gemstone cross.

"Who are you?" Bishop asked, without the slightest hint of fear or excitement. Bishop may have been old, but in his time, he'd fought in two wars, and was a firm believer that no one was going to shake him in his own house. A young man at seventeen, he'd volunteered and fought in the last years of World War I, and was still young enough to volunteer to fight the Nazis in World War II, and unlike many men, he'd made sure enough to keep himself in a physical condition that allowed him to live as long as he had. The young man, unshaken by Bishop's calm, in a manner of equal calm, replied, "I am your servant for the moment."

Bishop looked at his empty glass and asked the young man, "Will you fetch me another glass of scotch?" The young obliged quickly, rising to his feet, and walking to the kitchen with the glass to refill it. For a moment, Bishop had thought this an extraordinarily good thing. After all, for someone who intruded, the young man was incredibly gentile, and had offered his services to Bishop without cause. "What is your name young man?" Bishop asked. "What's in a name?" he joked. Then the young man answered, "My name is D. Just D, for now." An odd name to be sure. And Bishop was no intellectual slouch. "D for Devil, right?" Bishop said, smiling slightly. The young man nodded.

"What do you want with me?" Bishop inquired. The Devil looked at him somewhat confused and asked, "It's not what I want. It's what you want. You summoned me, not the other way around. But since you asked, I would like a glass of scotch. May I?" Bishop agreed, and the Devil went and poured himself a drink. Evil or not, a guest is a guest, and hospitality was the right thing in Bishop's mind. "Thank you," the Devil said as he sat back down. The Devil looked at Bishop from behind his sunglasses, through those deep, crimson eyes, and asked in a serious tone, "It's time to tell me what you want." Bishop replied with a question, "And what if I don't want anything?" The Devil set the glass down and replied, in a slightly sad tone, "I leave with your soul, and you live your life until you die and end up in Hell with me."

Bishop thought for a moment, and asked, "WHy do you get my soul? I've not asked for anything." The Devil answered, "That's the price for summoning me. The requests are entirely free, but the presence of the gift giver, is costly." "I want to be immortal," Bishop said with little thought. The Devil stood, placed his hands on Bishop's shoulders, and kissed him on each cheek. "It is done. From this day forward, by the power of my creation, and our pact, neither man nor God, nor any in all creation shall bring harm or death to you."

The Devil turned to leave and Bishop stopped him with a question, "What of the End Times? What becomes of me then?" The Devil looked back over his shoulder and replied, "You'll float in space until your feet find solid ground. My friend, you could float into the sun and no feel a single increase in temperature. Make good use of your longevity, I know I will." And with that, he closed the door behind him, and disappeared into a puff of brimstone. Bishop, feeling himself rejuvenated, sat back down to his typewriter, and began typing a title for a new story...

The Storyteller, by Bishop Benson.

And with that, my faithful audience, I bring our story to a close. Bishop was a good man at heart. He didn't make any mistake in summoning me. And I understand that honest men don't deserve my reception in Hell, though, I do make sure his soul is having as pleasant a time as possible. I was honest with Bishop because he was honest with me, and with himself. But the others? I may be a prisoner in Hell too, but I'm chief of the prisoner tribe. Bishop is a friend. How you'll be treated, well that depends on how you act when we meet. I'll be seeing you around.

The End.

April 15th, 2006, 09:44 PM

I liked it a lot!! THIS is a kodak moment!!