pip333
He sat there on that bench watching the charade as if he was not their scapegoat. They had stripped him of his dignity, that had been easy enough. They had taken everything he owned and had demolished his reputation. The events of the past six weeks had completely unravelled twenty years of hard slog. As he took stock of the losses he calculated that he had only two things left; the truth and an unwavering set of values. The truth, as it turned out, was of no value at all, so he turned his mind to what his mother had taught him - focus on the things you can control and don't give up until you're dead.
At the forefront of Beeker's mind was an imaginary world. He has spent the summer months populating it with the type of creatures and heroes that could put Mrs Thompson back in her place any day of the week.
Georgia began in workmanlike fashion, setting out her brushes and palettes in precise arrangements. It was the calm before her storm. The easel had been a gift from her grandfather. He had used it to paint the brutal atrocities of war. Once her colours had been mixed in the exact shades of the desert sky before her, she leaned in to the canvas and went about restoring the peace.
High in an apartment in mid town Manhattan Josie took occupancy of her grandmother's living room and began to write. Aided by only coffee and single malt whiskey, she pieced together the story that would unravel Politis and shake the foundations of Wall Street. All the while she felt nervous, terrified by the consequences of her truth. She lost weight and lived in a state of constant paranoia. Josie was worried they would track her down before she was done.
It was not until the second winter has passed and the snow melted from the edges of the balcony that she typed the last words and printed out the final copy. She tapped the pages firmly against the kitchen table so they formed a neat block. She slipped the wad into a manila envelope and held it to her thumping chest.
Seemingly charmed, George had to work hard to compensate his family for his absence. The influx of gifts was constant. They cleared spaces for more flowers, jewellery, toys and games. In April they arrived home one day to find a golden labrador puppy pooping on the doormat. In August the dog was joined by an Andalusian pony who outgrew the back yard within weeks. George sent things he thought would make them happy, but he no longer knew them. He didn't know if his boy could structure a sentence or throw a curve ball, and he never knew that his baby girl prayed to God very night for Daddy to come home.
If there was a more positive wavelength available she lacked the fortitude to grab hold of it. Her thoughts and emotions stuck like glue to the spinning top that spiralled endlessly downwards. She knew the way ahead was inevitable. She put her head down and waited cautiously for a head on collision with catastrophe.
Hers was an unkempt mind. She had hidden herself in a small windowless room and lived for years in the hazy glow of 24 hour cable tv. She favoured talk shows and soaps, to which she sat glued aside from the moving parts that fed her popcorn and noodles, donuts for morning tea and bars of chocolate for dessert.
She had wanted to love him. Stay close. But after they televised her undoing on national television there was little hope. Her dad was a man of simple means. He preferred the predictability of country life. As long as there was beer and cricket he could not find the headspace for her complicated ways. He couldn't understand her struggle let alone support it, so he put his head down, went quiet and stepped permanently to the sidelines of her life.
The ramshackle outhouse at the bottom of the garden held dark secrets. It was there, with the rusty remnants of her ancestors piled so high they blocked the light from every window, that she tended to her collection. She had cleared a table in the corner of the room, under the broken light, and laid out each bone with meticulous care. She was busy rearranging the various parts of Clover's spine when the door screeched open.
Olive did not take kindly to the unplanned visit of Mr. Clements.
He came from a murky place, where there was little to keep him warm at night and his flea ridden dog doubled as a blanket.
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writing since 2012 · 106 entries · 105 days shown up
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