NOTE: This is the first in an ongoing series related to short stories I wrote during my college years.
While a student at Rhode Island College, I took a few creative writing courses, the first of which took place during the Fall of 2001. For that semester we had to write two long short stories and a number of short writing assignments. For my first long story I wrote something named "The Final Chapter" (though the original first draft title, inscrutably enough, was "Hippomoromenous"). This story was written in October of 2001 and I believe it was also workshopped that same month. I'd hardly call it great writing: the premise is very twee and kind of Neil Gaimanesque, the writing is overly melodramatic, and I could have done without the ham-fisted metafictional intermission, which I thought was clever at the time (when I was 21 years old) but now strikes me as pointless. On the other hand, I do find it somewhat amusing, and it does mark the first appearance of the character known as Mr. Feathers (who the class loved): he went on to appear in some of my later novels such as PunkModernist and Confusion. In any event, "The Final Chapter" was my first true attempt at writing a short story, and I present it here, warts and all.
"The Final Chapter"
(by James Champagne)
If life were a novel, then you'd be on your last chapter Edward Westerburg thought to himself bitterly as he stared out at the bright blue sea one fine morning.
Dear God, Edward, is that what your life has come to? Using bad analogies?
Edward shook his head in disgust and chucked a rock at the ocean. He watched it sink and vanish.
Edward Westerburg was 75 years old, a tall, well built man with a tight, muscular body. In the past his skin had once been a pale color, but after eight years of living on a tiny island in the South Pacific it was now a healthy bronze (actually, it is only healthy bronze in Edward's mind. In truth, it is more of a sickly pale white with a dash of tan.-Ed.). His head was bald, his eyes black and dull as an old razor, his nose shaped like a hook, like a Doonsebury comic character come to life. He had once been attractive, but those years were long gone.
Edward sat down on a rock as he stared at the sea. If they made a movie of my life,
who would play me in my golden years? Sean Connery? Yeah, sure, Edward. In your
dreams. Marlon Brando maybe. And that’s if you're lucky...
Edward thought back to his "life as a novel" analogy. If life was, in fact, like a novel, how would his book proceed? Edward tried to imagine a table of contents: Prologue, birth. Chapter 1, early childhood and education. Chapter two, high school. Chapter three, college. Chapter 4, your first book is published. Chapter 5, you become famous. Chapter 6, the good years: Wine, opera, wealth. Chapter 7, book sales start to fall. Chapter 8, writer's block. Chapter 9, hookers, drugs, and booze. Chapter 10, hookers, drugs and booze. Chapter 11, hookers drugs and booze. Chapter 12, rehab. Chapter 13, hookers, drugs and booze. Chapter 14, quit writing in general, move to a nearly deserted island in the South Pacific. Chapter 15, waste eight years of your life in solitude. Chapter 16, get old and hope to die soon.
And now, he was at the final chapter. About time.
Edward stared at the ocean, then rose up, his whole body aching. He pondered going down to the local village, then decided against it. No, he needed to be alone. He walked through the jungle, listened to the chirp of the tropical birds and the chatter of the insects. His house was large and located to the north of the island, where it was nice and quiet. And right now, Edward needed quiet. The voices in his head were quieter then they'd been in years, but to Edward theywere still a dull roar in his ears, never going away, with him till the day he died.
* * * *
One afternoon a week later...
Edward sat in the study of his house, staring down at his rusty old typewriter, the same typewriter he had wrote his very first novel with, 50 years ago. Sweat clung to his forehead. He stared at the typewriter, frustrated, his brain racing to find words, characters, setting and grabbing nothing but cobwebs. Edward began to type, with the caution of a child entering water for the first time. It had been so easy once, it shouldn't be any different now...
Edward typed: CHAPTER ONE.
Edward paused, thinking. Then he typed: THE END.
Then he typed THE END again.
THE END.
THE END.
THE END. THE END. THE END.
Edward's mind was blank. He couldn't think of anything. He then realized the cold, hard truth. He had no more stories to tell, no more characters to create, no more ideas period. He was out of stories, out of plotlines, out of time in general. The truth went down Edward's throatlike bitter acid, burning every inch of the way.
Edward howled, grabbed the typewriter, began smashing it against the wall, screaming out of control. SMASH SMASH SMASH until the typewriter, once the tool he used to create beautiful and wonderful worlds, was just a piece of destroyed machinery, as destroyed as his hopes and dreams.
Edward took a nap that afternoon to calm his nerves. He lay in his bed, his stereo playing Wagner's Der Ring des Nibelungen. It was the "Gotterdammerung" segment, part 4, when Valhalla burned and the gods died. As Edward lied in bed he stared at his bookshelf. On one shelf were the twenty-five novels he had written, in the order they had been published. Edward stared at his books bitterly. Once, they had provided him with happy memories. Now they were as black and bleak and featureless as a monolith, and as ominous as a giant wall. It was almost like they were mocking him as he lay there dying. Those books had been his life. And now his life was over.
Still, at the very least, Edward still felt that he had tried his best. Sure, as the years flew by like pages turning in a book the novels had decreased in quality. However, even the worst of them had at least one good line of dialogue, one well-developed character, one good scene that still impressed even him. Edward may have been washed up, but he didn't see himself as a hack. He was just a tired old man. If he tried really hard, he could probably still crank out a greatnovel. He still felt he had a bit of his old talent left.
I may be a dying old man, but I did good. My books still stand up, or, at the very least, the good ones do. I created hundreds of memorable characters. That's all that matters, really Edward thought to himself. Years from now people will still be reading my work and realizing my genius.
Edward closed his eyes and drifted into uneasy sleep.
* * * *
One night a month later...
Edward was in his bed, dying. The village doctor stood over him, reading his temperature. The doctor sighed and shook his head. Edward would be dead by morning.
The doctor looked at Edward, who was hallucinating due to his high fever. The doctor was wondering what was going on in Edward's head. Too bad Edward had no friends or relatives to be by his side as he died. Edward truly was alone.
* * * *
Edward opened his eyes and gasped.
He was in bed, but his bedroom had changed. A forest of marble surrounded him:
Columns, regal balconies, and baroque architecture. The walls were very ornate, the arches laced with cherubs dancing to the heavens, while angels frolicked among the roof beams. Classical music played softly in the background.
"Am I in heaven?" Edward asked, feeling a little stupid.
"Not yet, but don't worry, you'll find out soon enough." said a voice to his left.
Edward turned his head and saw a tall pale man in a clown outfit standing near his bed.
Okay, this is odd Edward thought, frowning. What the fuck was going on?
"And you are?" Asked Edward.
"Oh, forgive me. Um, I am the Grim Reaper," replied the tall man, voice chipper.
"Where's the black robe?" Edward asked, confused.
"Black isn't my thing. I prefer happy colors," smiled the Grim Reaper.
"Shouldn't you have a sickle?" questioned Edward. Death always has a sickle, right?
"They won't let me use sickles anymore." shrugged the Grim Reaper.
"Why not?" Asked Edward.
"One night I was drunk and accidentally eviscerated myself." sighed the Grim Reaper.
"Ouch." winced Edward.
"You're telling me."
"So," Edward looked around. "What's going on?"
"Well, Edward, I'll be blunt. You're dying."
"I figured as much."
"However, no one deserves to die alone. So, I have a surprise for you. Some people
are coming by to give their respects. Well, actually, more then some. More like, every character you ever created."
"WHAT?"
Then the Grim Reaper vanished in a burst of smoke.
A door opened and a man stepped in the room. Edward looked him over. The man was tall and handsome, dressed in a tux. He seemed familiar.
"Hello, Edward." The man smiled. "Recognize me?"
"Um...no." Edward sighed. Still, this man looked familiar. Edward strained to remember...
"My name is Jack Leary. That name ring a bell?" Asked the man.
"Oh my God!" exclaimed Edward, eyes wide (the lead character of my first book!).
"Yup, good ole The Enigma Forest, the book that brought you critical acclaim. You never could top that one." Leary sighed and shook his head. "Anyway, I'll be quick, there's many others who must pay their respects. Or disrespects, as it were. But I digress. Anyway, thanks for giving me the lead part in your best book, I appreciate it."
"Uh, your welcome, I guess," Edward didn't know what to say.
"Too bad your other characters were not as lucky," Leary sighed and shook his head.
"Well, have a safe trip to the afterlife, it was nice living in your head for the past fifty years. Not to mention on millions of pages worldwide."
Leary walked away and Edward was alone again. Then he heard the door open.
Edward turned his head again and saw a new face by his bedside. This man was short and fat, with a scowl on his face. He was dressed in a military outfit.
"Recognize me?" The man asked, voice angry.
Edward shook his head.
"Solider number 14 in Empty War," scowled the man. "You only gave me one scene in that book!"
"Sorry." apologized Edward. "How can I remember you? I wrote hundreds of minor solider characters over the years!"
Oh shit, they'll all be visiting me too? Edward thought in alarm.
"You did not even give me a name!" spit out Solider Number 14.
"You weren't a main character! You weren't even a secondary character!" barked Edward. "I just needed you to die in the war!"
"Thanks a lot!" grumbled the solider. "You could have fleshed me out better, you know. I had a fascinating back-story, but no! You just used me in one tiny scene! What did I do to you that made you decide to flesh out other characters instead of me?"
"Its nothing personal, solider, I just needed a man to die in that scene. What was the point of fleshing out such a minor character? You served your purpose."
"Yeah, whatever. If having your head knocked off by a cannonball is a 'purpose'." The Solider snorted and walked off.
Next up was a man who was headless, just a walking body and nothing else.
"My name is Romeo. I was to be the star of your book The Profit. A book you quit on page three and never finished. You quit before you described what my head looked like. Now I am forever headless," moaned the unfinished character.
Edward shook his head. This'll be a long night he thought sadly.
* ** *
And so the procession continued, as character after character visited Edward's bedside to pay their final respects. Not just the main characters, but EVERY character he had created, from the heroes to the villains to the foils to the nobodies. It was a nearly endless parade of the people who had been living in Edward's head all his life, people he had given birth to through his typewriter. Some of the characters laughed with him, some laughed at him, some cursed at him,
some cried with him. But no matter who it was, they all had something to say.
Edward turned his head to look at the latest mourner. This man was tall and muscular, dressed like a pirate. In fact, it was a pirate. Edward guessed this one to be Captain Arthur "Red Blood" Dreyfuss, main character of his dreadful sixteenth novel, a pirate book Edward had written on the advice of his publisher. The critics (and reading audience at large) had never forgiven him for that one.
"Captain Red Blood!" exclaimed Edward. "Good to see you."
"Shut up, asshole," scowled the pirate. "How dare you give me the lead part in The
Pirate?"
"You are complaining because I made you a main character?" Edward asked, confused.
"Look at what book it was, matey! The Pirate! Your worst book! Couldn't you have made me the lead in The Enigma Forest? Or maybe Coldness? No, you give me The Pirate." and here the pirate shook his head. "That's all people will think when they hear the name Arthur 'Red Blood' Dreyfuss."
Edward began to apologize, but by that point the pirate had walked off.
"THAT WAS A GOOD BOOK, YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARD!" Edward yelled.
Edward was starting to feel a tad sick. Why did all his characters hate him so much? Hehad tried so hard to flesh them out, to make them seem flesh and blood real. Well, at the very least, the major characters. Even the minor ones.
Who CARED about a freaking nameless solider?!?! The character wasn't important!
The door opened. Edward turned his head and gasped.
A gigantic dragon was near his bedside, a dragon easily the size of a house. The dragon had black scales covering his body and giant leathery wings. Spikes ran down his back, and his mouth was full of sharp pointy teeth the length of knives.This was Poisonreptyl, lead villain of Wizard And Wasteland, Edward's attempt at a fantasy novel.
"Remember me?" the dragon asked, voice civilized.
"Yes. Poisonreptyl." Edward sighed. He was a little intimidated by the dragon, but not scared. Why should he be scared? He was dying anyway. The dragon couldn't hurt him.
"You wrote me all wrong, you know," sighed the Dragon.
"Beg pardon?" Edward asked.
"I mean, you portrayed me as some demonic, power hungry tyrant!" Poisonreptyl roared. "For your information, I happen to be a kind, charitable individual."
"It was a fantasy novel, I needed a villain to capture the princess." said Edward in
frustration. "You had to be a villain!"
"Why not make the knight a bad guy! Have him capture a dragon princess and I'd have to save her from the knight!" countered Poisonreptyl.
"A villain knight? A heroic dragon? Nonsense!" snorted Edward.
"Its been done." Poisonreptyl sniffed. "Or you could have had me capture a prince and had a female knight save him."
Edward began to speak, then shut up.
"Then again, when it comes to characters, you always took the easy way out." Poisonreptyl shook his large head in sadness. "Why create original flesh and blood characters when you can resort to easy stereotypes? Lord knows you had many of those. The Arabic taxi driver who can't speak English. The tortured, suicidal repressed homosexual. The absent minded professor. The mad scientist. The Irish drunk. The pervert in the park. The priest child molester. The hooker with a heart of gold. Don't get me started on your misogyny towards women..."
"Fuck you." Edward cursed.
"Wow, good one. Great retort. And you call yourself a writer." The dragon laughed
scornfully, his great body shaking, his scales rattling. "I don't know what the critics saw in you. You are not a great writer. Not even a good one. Shit, not even a mediocre one. You, my sir, are a hack of the highest order. A man who churned out books like factories churn out cars. Somehow you duped millions of people into thinking you were one of the greatest writers of the modern age. For awhile it worked. Then you began to believe the myth. You became self-important. And your work suffered. And when the public was sick of you you hid your disappointment behind a veil of alcohol and prostitutes. And when you were through with that you ran and hid to your little island. And the most ironic thing is, you were never that good to
begin with."
Edward was silent for a moment, then he said "That's just your opinion. I think I handled your character well."
"Oh really?" Poisonreptyl's eyes widened. "Well, let's see."
A book appeared in the dragon's hands. Edward looked at the cover, saw it was Wizard
And Wasteland. The dragon flipped to page 100, then pulled out a pair of bifocals, which he delicately placed on his snout.
"Oh please!" Edward groaned.
"Shut up, I'm near-sighted." huffed Poisonreptyl. "Now, where was that passage... Ah, here it is!" He cleared his throat, then, in an oratical voice, read: "And thus the dragon Poisonreptyl looked at the brave knight and claimed 'I am your worst nightmare!'" The dragon closed the book and glared at Edward.
"So?" Edward asked.
"Its an awful line! No self-respecting dragon would ever use the line 'I am your worst nightmare'! It's a bad line, Eddie, it’s a cliché. A hack writer line. Myself, I would have said 'I will rend the flesh off your fetid bones, you walking tin can, and use your skeleton for kindling'. See, now that line jumps off the page. And the worst was my final line as I died: "Let history never forget my name, dark and evil as it is'." Poisonreptyl moaned in dismay.
Edward said "Its a good line."
"Its crap." said the dragon, dismissive.
"Its a great line."
"Its crap."
"Its POETIC."
"Its poetic crap." Poisonreptyl insisted, voice peevish. "You even have me breathe fire."
Edward paused, blinked, then screamed "DRAGONS BREATHE FIRE!"
Poisonreptyl looked at Edward with pity. "Oh Eddie, Eddie, Ed-DIE. Try to be original. A dragon breathing fire is out dated. Couldn't I breathe lightning instead?"
"That would distract the reader. People expect to see a dragon breathe fire."
"Yes, why make them think? Your books always were braindead. And easy."
"I'm your creator, Poisonreptyl. You should treat me with respect. I am your god!" Edward shouted.
Poisonreptyl sighed, then said "Well, you are our Wotan. But Wotan's staff has been
shattered. Now you will die and Valhalla will burn. Good day, sir."
And the dragon walked off.
Next was a short woman with green eyes and short black hair. She was wearing frumpy
clothes. Edward recognized her as Mary Baines, the child killer in his detective novel Blood Lust.
"Hello, Edward." she said, voice cool.
"Mary." Edward nodded.
"I'm pissed with you."
"Join the club. Why?"
"You made me a villain."
"The story needed a villain."
"Yes, but you never fleshed me out. There was a reason I killed those children. But you just made me a typical villain, uncomplicated, a stock character. You would never let people hear my side of the story." said Mary.
"Mary..." began Edward.
"Then again, your women were never fleshed out. Women were all the same to you. Whores and sluts, virgins and nuns, nurses and mothers, psychos and gossipers. Never any lesbians. Never any feminists. Never any strong females. You were a vile misogynist. Freud would have loved you. You were not a responsible writer. You slacked off with your characters. As our creator, you owed it to ALL of us to make us real. But you shirked your duties." scowled Mary.
"Hey now, that's a little harsh." grimaced Edward, stung by Mary's words.
"The truth is harsh. Even in real life you only used women for sex. It's no surprise you never got married. Not only are you a bad writer, but you're also a grade A scumbag." With that, Mary stormed off angrily.
Edward closed his eyes. He didn't think he could take much more of this.
* * * *
INTERMISSION
You put the story down, get up, rub your eyes. You yawn, then slowly walk into your
kitchen, where your boyfriend/girlfriend is cooking dinner.
"How's that story honey?" s/he asks you.
"Pretty odd," You say. "It began as this story about some old novelist waiting to die on some island, but now its about that author being visited by every character he ever created as he dies."
"Sounds metafictional." replies your boyfriend/girlfriend.
"I don't know what to think about it yet." You say.
"Why don't you go finish it?" s/he asks.
"Good idea." You say. You eat an oreo, then return to your chair, pick up the story, and continue reading.
END OF INTERMISSION
* * * *
To Edward, the night seemed to be going on forever as his brain vomited out every
character he had ever created, each with something to say. They just never seemed to stop coming.
Damn, why'd I write so many fucking books? thought Edward in anger.
The procession now seemed operatic in scale, like the operas Edward had enjoyed years ago just one million times larger. The classical music that had been playing in the background was gone now, opera music in its place as thousands of voices sang an endless, unrelenting chorus, their voices reverberating all over the room.
And the characters kept coming, each one a major player, each one trailing clouds of ether in their wake.
LET ME DIE! screamed Edward's brain.
The door opened again.
Edward turned and saw...
HIMSELF.
"Huh?" asked Edward.
"Hello, Edward." smiled the Edward clone. "I am Oswald Kafka. Remember me?"
Of course! thought Edward. Oswald Kafka, the lead of his thirteenth novel, Slug Bait. The only character he had ever modeled after himself, in his own image.
"Well, I've got some good new for you, my friend. The procession is finally almost over. After me, there's only one character left." replied Oswald, his voice the same as Edward's.
"Thank heavens." Edward said in relief.
"You know, it’s ironic. All your life you thought you were alone, but you were never really alone. You always had US, trapped inside your head, screaming to get out. And you let us out. And we made you millions of dollars. You created us, you were our God, you gave us life. Now your life is almost over, but we'll live forever." Oswald chuckled.
"Huh?" Asked Edward.
"Don't play stupid, Edward." sighed Oswald. "As long as people still read your books, we will always live on. I mean, think of Shakespeare. Whenever someone reads one of his plays, the characters of Hamlet, Juliet, Brutus, et al come to life. But Shakespeare... He's dead forever."
"Yes, but people still have an interest in Shakespeare." said Edward.
"He's still dead." Oswald shrugged. "But my point is the characters he created live on. Characters in books are eternal. As long as the books survive, so do we. Do you have ANY idea how long Beowulf has been alive? Or Sherlock Holmes? Or Lady Macbeth? We will live forever, Edward, while our creator's bones turn to dust."
"Yes, but I created you in my image. You're just like me. Doesn't that mean I'll still live on?"
"Metaphorically, yes, I guess. Like a meme, I suppose. But it’s different. Anyhow, your time is almost up. I have one question... Why did you become a writer?" asked Oswald, his voice dead serious.
"I wanted to create, I guess. There were voices in my head begging to be let out." said Edward.
"Poppycock." grinned Oswald. "You did it for two reasons: Fame, and because you were
scared."
"Scared?" Edward asked.
"Yes, scared." Oswald nodded. "Remember that day long ago, when you were five years
old? Your mom and dad had gotten into a bad fight. Your dad hit your mom. You got scared and ran upstairs. You wanted to hide. You began to write a short story, about a giant owl named Mr. Feathers who killed your father and who then lived happily with you and your mother forever. You had so much fun writing that story that writing became your escape from a life that was too painful. All your fears and insecurities and private obsessions manifested themselves on to the page, things you could not face within yourself, things you camouflaged as literature. That's been your whole life Edward, always running, always hiding, all because of that one incident when you were young. Your entire writing career has just been a shield to protect you from a harsh world. And when your writing career failed, when the book ideas stopped coming, you ran and hid from society on this island.
"Well, its time to stop running and hiding, Edward."
And Oswald left, leaving Edward speechless.
Yet it was true, all of it, everything Oswald had said was true. Of course it was Oswald whopointed it out, seeing as Oswald was his doppelganger. Edward had, in a way, come to the same conclusion. He was Oswald. He had realized his problem.
He was a hack. He was a shitty writer. His children were right.
All those years of his life wasted, running from problems he was too cowardly to face, writing books to escape his past, all the while convincing himself that he was doing somethingworthwhile, something artistic, something important.
He had lied to himself. And now his characters had shown him the truth.
His lifework, all that people would remember him by, his books, were nothing but empty shit.The scared, crude, nonsense ravings of a boy terrified of the world. He had never been anything,except in his own head. He was his characters, and his characters were nothing.
It was too much for Edward to comprehend. He felt like his guts had been ripped out.
The room became dark, and the walls of the death chamber started to disintegrate into waves of static, as the opera was drowned out by industrial sounds and white noise. Edward was almost dead. Everything was crumbling apart. Valhalla was burning. The god was dying, deserted by his children. He was alone.
And Edward, at the end of his life, was scared. Scared and, at the same time, bitter with regret. Regret that his life, when all was said and done, had amounted to nothing.
Then the door opened for the final time. Edward turned...
And by his bed was a giant owl. Regal, authoritative, wise and comforting. A private security blanket from 70 years ago.
It was Mr. Feathers. His first character ever.
"Mr. Feathers!" said Edward.
Mr. Feathers seemed to smile at him.
"Mr. Feathers, I'm scared. Please protect me. I need you now, in my final hour." said Edward, voice childish.
You'll be okay, Edward said a voice in Edward's head. Mr. Feather's voice.
Mr. Feathers flew on to Edward's bed. Edward grabbed the large owl and hugged him
tightly, resting his head against the warm feathers of the owl. The noise was louder now as the room fell apart. A mighty howl cut through the air, but Edward was not afraid. Holding on to Mr. Feathers, he felt safe. Mr. Feathers had comforted him in his darkest hour 70 years ago, and would not fail him now.
The room was pure static now, and slowly the world began to fade into darkness as chaos slowly gave way to solitude. Edward just hung on to Mr. Feathers, waiting to go to the other side.
As Edward died, as everything went to black, he had time for one more thought...
You were never alone.
Edward closed his eyes and, feeling strangely comforted, died.
And his children, their god dead at last, were set free.
And likewise the god was free of them.
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