Young Writers Society

I have a time limit so I don't know how much I'll be able to post. But this is my new project. enjoy, all comments welcome.

cheers CL

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The Lost King

Chapter One - The Day of Days

“Joshua Merrion you swine I am-”

The slender, alpine man cradling the phone just inches from his ear slouches uninterested as the screeching litany carried on. Casually he flicks a fly from the top of his unoccupied hand and burrowed himself father into the little hovel his has created for himself in which he feels like a giant. The worn, wooden desk in front of him is littered with papers, pens, the occasional pencil, unopened mail and books aged with dust. One of the legs of the desk is shorter than the other is being propped level by a misused King James’ Bible. The over-stuffed acidly colored avocado green lazy chair that he is in wilts under the unaccustomed weight. The whole room in which he has inhabited these past months seems a disaster zone out of an Orwellian nightmare. There is a burnt coffee table, just salvageable, two very uncomfortable television chairs straight from the sixties complete with the rusty, silver set, and dusty, neglected turntable. One door opens to a miniscule bathroom with rusted out facilities, another to the bedroom littered with dirty clothes, more papers and books.

The man bored with the constant strain on his ears holds the phone farther away clicked his nails hideously. Then, like the sound of the Second Coming of Christ, a loud beep breaks through the wailing.

Quickly the man brings the phone to his face, “Listen Sylvia, stop this madness I am not your human thrashing bag any more, somebody else is on the line. And isn’t there someone else you can spout your monologues of ´Josh needs to just fucking die already’ to?” He didn’t even try to conceal the sneer in his voice and he audibly heard her grinding her teeth together. He is about to hang up on her, but at the last minute she shatters the silence with a huff.

“Bastard, I may be your ex Joshua but I think I deserve-”

He has no patience for her anymore and cuts her off.

“Hello?” He silent hopes it’s not the bank.

“Josh, is that you? Good. Listen-”

He sighs today really isn’t his day. It is his editor Ken Grimes, the man continues, his cheery disposition grinding on Joshua’s nerves almost as much as his ex-wife’s snarling. He absently wonders why can’t people just leave him in peace?

“How’s the new book coming?”

Joshua lies, “Just fine Ken. Actually I’m working on it right now.” Even thought every time he writes something it ends up a crumble little ball in his ever growing trash.

“Oh good, I’ll leave you to it then. I’ll call again soon on particulars and such. How are the kids?”

Ah, such menial pleasantries, he sighs, “Fine,” enough though he hasn’t heard from either one since he arrived at this dismal cabin in the Northern California wilderness.

“Good, good. Talk to you later then.”

“Yeah, later then, Ken.”

The click sounds ominously on the other end and slowly he places the phone back in the cradle and buries his head in his hands. Running his thin, pale fingers through his rapidly greying hair he exhales loudly and massages his head attempting to abolish the headache that has been there for so long, he wonders if he was born with it.

Slowly, he lifts himself out of the chair and heads towards the small, dingy kitchen, bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. There on the counter is the decanter of amber scotch half full and an unwashed coffee mug from yesterday. He pours himself a mug full and swallows a good amount in effort to clear his head. Leaning his elbows on the cold linoleum of the counter he looks out of the murky tarnished kitchen window to the darkening forest beyond. He queries the absence of ambition in his mind, - ‘Can you really drink yourself to death?’ – for it seems like a possible answer.

*

The next day probes to be no different than the last. Still he gets more mail he never opens; frequent calls from ex-wife-monster Sylvia, editor Ken, and various others that he doesn’t want to speak to, and he still can’t write. Which is quite a crisis from a struggling out-of-work writer; his last endeavour, a book, The Jade Princess had done quite well but that was two years or more past. Since then nothing he wrote seemed decent. He blames it on Sylvia he likes to think that she killed his muse along with his libido – the bitch. It seemed to him that she was getting along fine, and well she should, most of the settlement money went to her in the divorce, but he still got numerous calls from her. Just like this one he had decided on to answer, he let the machine pick it up.

"Joshua, Joshua Alexander Merrion! Now I ....