It's taken me a little time--something I don't have much of--but I finally found a word-count widget that I can add. I suppose I'm rather visual; I need the graphics to spur me on to keep working. I've set the word count total at 75000, but I'm not certain the novel will need to be so long. I won't know till I've written it, I suppose.
Also, not certain about the title. It's got possibilities, but there may be a better option. Initially I'd hoped for something from The Duchess of Malfi, but nothing seemed to suit. I may have a better idea when the story is finished.
Worked hard today and completed slightly more than 3000 words (I have my trusty word counter to prove it!), and chapter 9 is coming along nicely. Still have at least another 1500 words to finish the chapter, though, I think.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Finklestein Factor
THE FINKLESTEIN FORMULA
Finklestein found himself staring down the barrel of an enormous gun.
“It’s big, isn’t it?” Madeline acknowledged in her winsome way. “They say size isn’t everything, but—” she pouted. “I never really believed that, did you?”
Finklestein moaned. The muscles of his mouth contracted and the twitch that three therapists claimed to have cured returned in a frenzy.
“I mean,” Madeline went on. “Look at you. And it’s not just that you’re—well, small—you don’t even know how to use what you’ve got. Sorry, darling, that it has to be this way, what with you being so generous with the trust fund, and all, but Trevor insisted.”
Trevor?
Her perfectly manicured hands clasped the gun with intimate tenderness. The incongruous sound of diamonds kissing metal was obliterated by thunder and Finklestein faded into black.
He was surprised to wake in Paradise.
“Welcome to heaven, old son,” the Almighty greeted him in Michael Caine’s voice.
Overcome, Finklestein stammered his thanks.
“Not at all, not at all,” God replied with the impeccable manners of a laid-back Englishman.
While Finklestein considered that oxymoron, his Creator continued, “You should find everything you want here, mate, even things you didn’t know you wanted. If you should find you’re missing anything—” and here He laughed dryly. “Be sure to let Me know.” With a nonchalant wave the Creator sauntered off into a magnificent sunrise.
* * *
The first few months were fine. Finklestein supposed there were months involved; there was no awareness of time in Paradise. You could call up a splendid midnight or a dazzling dawn depending on your whim. Both together, if that was your thing.
Finklestein schmoozed with old friends and his departed family, even those he’d avoided when they were all alive. He lost his bald spot, romanced Marilyn Monroe, and ate enough to feed a herd of buffalo without gaining a pound. All in all, Paradise was much as he would have expected, if he had ever thought about it.
Gradually he realized he was unhappy. Oh, not miserable; not like when Madeline killed him, for instance, but a bit…empty.
He wondered if he should say anything. It didn’t seem quite the thing to complain about Paradise being too, well, perfect. On the other hand, the Almighty had said if there was anything…
He fretted for what he guessed was about a week then hunted up the Creator playing pool with Moses and James Dean.
“Oy, Finklestein,” the Almighty said. (He never forgot a face; Finklestein supposed it wasn’t British.) “Grab a cue and let’s see your stuff.”
Finklestein shook his head. “I’ll just watch if You don’t mind.”
Dean was playing. He downed a beer and began to empty the table. “Five ball in the corner pocket,” he said. Or something like that; Finklestein didn’t know from pool.
“He’s cheating,” Moses whispered into Finklestein’s ear. “He has to be. No one is that good.”
Dean missed the ball, and then the Creator picked up His cue and wiped them all away. “That was fun,” God said, smugly. “Let’s grab a pizza and play another round.”
“Um,” Finklestein said.
“What’s up, Finklestein—something on your mind?” God looked suddenly like Jack Nicholson. A cockney Jack Nicholson. “Lay it on me, old son.”
“Well,” said Finklestein. “You did say to let You know if there was something.”
“And?” God/Nicholson looked bored.
“I’m not happy.”
Dean dropped his glass. The beer splashed all over his motor cycle boots, only to disappear instantly. Paradise was an inherently tidy place.
“You’re kidding, right?” God said. “One of these jokers put you up to it? Who was it? Elvis? I bet it was Elvis—he can’t resist a prank. Good one, Finkelstein.”
“I mean it,” Finklestein said, ignoring the expression on Dean and Moses’ faces.
“You can’t be serious,” God said, petulantly. Then, lapsing into biblical: “Why, you want for nothing.”
“That’s just it,” Finklestein said. “I need to want for something. It’s boring. I mean, I want to lay Cleopatra and there she is. I want to talk to JFK about that single bullet thing and—well, You get the picture.”
“I thought that single bullet thing was one of My best jokes,” God whined. “How come nobody got it?”
“I miss rainy days,” Finklestein rambled on, warming to the topic. “I miss Fall and snow and the Cubs losing again. I miss Richard Nixon.”
“I miss travelling—” Moses put in, unexpectedly. He glanced nervously at God. “Not that I’m not perfectly happy,” he added, quickly. “But I think I know where old Finklestein here is coming from. That desert heat was a pain in the—well, it was a pain. And those people always whining—I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, maybe you should ask directions… but the days when it really worked. Oy! Nothing can beat it.”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “And driving a car one-twenty an hour when you’d had a drop too much—Man, I miss those days.”
God was very quiet. “Hm,” He said.
It turned out that most of the people in heaven were unhappy about something. Doctors missed playing god and having to take second place to the real thing. Dickens missed London, Steinbeck California, and Hemingway Life (he proclaimed, with a capital L).
“I’d lose my other ear to walk through a real sunflower field,” Van Gogh mused to Churchill.
“I’d give anything to fight another war,” Churchill said. There was silence. “What? What did I say?”
“You’ve really started something, Finklestein,” God said, later. He called up a prefab night with dazzling stars and whirling comets. He and Finklestein sat by the ocean listening to Mozart and John Lennon playing a duet.
“Sorry,” Finklestein mumbled.
“I mean, this is Heaven,” God protested. “If word of this gets out—” He shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it.”
“It’s not that there’s anything really wrong,” Finklestein said. “There are worse places,” he looked down, pointedly.
God shrugged. “This wouldn’t be Paradise with people like Hitler and Stalin and Simon Cowell walking around—”
“Cowell’s still alive.”
“He is? Oh yeah, must make a note. Anyway, you get My point?”
“Mm.”
“I mean, the whole thing is you should lack for nothing, you know?”
“I know.”
“And it turns out everyone here misses something. They all think Paradise is too perfect. Well, except the Catholics. They think it’s too Jewish.”
“It’s a problem,” Finklestein said. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“No, no,” the Creator said, forgiveness being His schtick, and all. “I’m glad you did. I think I am. I mean, I didn’t even know there was a problem. You don’t have any suggestions?”
“There are better minds than mine around here,” Finklestein said, humbly.
“I know,” God said, ignoring the humility. “Einstein, Socrates, Gavin—”
“Who?”
“Joe Gavin, great bloke. An Irish philosopher, if you can imagine such a thing.”
“So what do they say?”
God shrugged. “It’s a problem.”
Finklestein felt responsible. After all, Paradise had functioned perfectly well before he showed up. Sure, everyone felt a bit empty, but at least they’d had the brains to keep their mouths shut.
“Any ideas?” he asked Nietzsche later.
The great philosopher shook his head. “Don’t ask me, friend. I’m still dealing with the concept of God.”
Spinoza, Sartre, Socrates—no one had any ideas. Maybe he was asking the wrong people. He talked to religious experts, but neither Pope nor Rabbi could help.
“I feel responsible,” he confided in Moses. They were playing backgammon and the old prophet
was having incredible luck with the dice.
“What’s to feel responsible?” Moses said. “Ah, double six! You were just honest, is all. It’s acceptable around here. Even required. Don’t think the Lord will hold it against you; He’s pretty forgiving. Well, most of the time. He still gets pretty steamed if you mention the Inquisition… That’s another game to me. You’re not having a whole lot of luck lately, are you,
Finklestein?”
Finklestein visited the brilliant and the once-famous. To a man they told him to quit worrying. “You’ll just make things worse for yourself, Finklestein,” Galileo said. “And believe me, I know!”
Still, it gnawed at him and he decided at last to take the bull by the horns, in a manner of speaking. He found God fishing with Michael Landon. “Oy, Finklestein,” the Creator said. “Why so glum?”
“I wanted to talk to You about this problem I found. I’ve spent a lot of time lately talking to the brilliant in the hopes that they may be able to make some suggestions. But no one can. I guess we’re stuck. I feel it’s all my fault.”
“Tosh!” God said. “That was always your problem, Finklestein—trying to take control over every situation. That’s why Madeline killed you. Well, one of the reasons. ”
“Yes, but what are we going do?”
“We?” God suddenly seemed like God. Not the George Burns variety, but a Cecil B. DeMille type. Maybe a vengeful alien in Star Trek. “Listen, mate,” God said. “I take care of all the problems around here; it’s in the job description. Anyway, I already found the solution.”
“You did?”
“Sure, I was kinda tired when you brought it up, but I’m well rested now. I mean, Somalia, India and Israel are off my back for the moment. Anyway, I think you’ll like what I have in mind.”
“And what, if I may be so bold as to ask—”
“Ask away. It’s like this: People are just complacent. It’s not just that they are bored or miss things; that sense of danger isn’t there any more. So I’ve decided to put it back.”
“Put it back?”
God snickered. “You’re gonna love it. In fact, I think I’m gonna call it the Finklestein Formula, then everyone will know how you inspired Me.”
Finklestein felt a sudden chill of presentiment. “I did?”
“The plan, you see, is that you get to experience what you’re missing. Once a year I’ll send everyone back to experience the worst moment of their lives again. Only, since no one but Me can keep track of time around here, it’ll come as a surprise. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“Um—”
“And like I said, I’ll be sure to let you have all the credit. What could be fairer?” God smiled dangerously. “They’ll be lining up around the block to thank you.”
“That really isn’t necessary,” Finklestein said. “I wouldn’t want to take credit for another man’s work—”
“Nonsense! Besides, I’m not a man. Get ready.”
“Ready?”
* * *
Finklestein found himself staring down the barrel of an enormous gun.
“It’s big, isn’t it?” Madeline said in her winsome way. “ I know they say size isn’t everything, but,” she pouted. “I’ve never really believed that. Have you?”
Finklestein moaned.
Finklestein found himself staring down the barrel of an enormous gun.
“It’s big, isn’t it?” Madeline acknowledged in her winsome way. “They say size isn’t everything, but—” she pouted. “I never really believed that, did you?”
Finklestein moaned. The muscles of his mouth contracted and the twitch that three therapists claimed to have cured returned in a frenzy.
“I mean,” Madeline went on. “Look at you. And it’s not just that you’re—well, small—you don’t even know how to use what you’ve got. Sorry, darling, that it has to be this way, what with you being so generous with the trust fund, and all, but Trevor insisted.”
Trevor?
Her perfectly manicured hands clasped the gun with intimate tenderness. The incongruous sound of diamonds kissing metal was obliterated by thunder and Finklestein faded into black.
He was surprised to wake in Paradise.
“Welcome to heaven, old son,” the Almighty greeted him in Michael Caine’s voice.
Overcome, Finklestein stammered his thanks.
“Not at all, not at all,” God replied with the impeccable manners of a laid-back Englishman.
While Finklestein considered that oxymoron, his Creator continued, “You should find everything you want here, mate, even things you didn’t know you wanted. If you should find you’re missing anything—” and here He laughed dryly. “Be sure to let Me know.” With a nonchalant wave the Creator sauntered off into a magnificent sunrise.
* * *
The first few months were fine. Finklestein supposed there were months involved; there was no awareness of time in Paradise. You could call up a splendid midnight or a dazzling dawn depending on your whim. Both together, if that was your thing.
Finklestein schmoozed with old friends and his departed family, even those he’d avoided when they were all alive. He lost his bald spot, romanced Marilyn Monroe, and ate enough to feed a herd of buffalo without gaining a pound. All in all, Paradise was much as he would have expected, if he had ever thought about it.
Gradually he realized he was unhappy. Oh, not miserable; not like when Madeline killed him, for instance, but a bit…empty.
He wondered if he should say anything. It didn’t seem quite the thing to complain about Paradise being too, well, perfect. On the other hand, the Almighty had said if there was anything…
He fretted for what he guessed was about a week then hunted up the Creator playing pool with Moses and James Dean.
“Oy, Finklestein,” the Almighty said. (He never forgot a face; Finklestein supposed it wasn’t British.) “Grab a cue and let’s see your stuff.”
Finklestein shook his head. “I’ll just watch if You don’t mind.”
Dean was playing. He downed a beer and began to empty the table. “Five ball in the corner pocket,” he said. Or something like that; Finklestein didn’t know from pool.
“He’s cheating,” Moses whispered into Finklestein’s ear. “He has to be. No one is that good.”
Dean missed the ball, and then the Creator picked up His cue and wiped them all away. “That was fun,” God said, smugly. “Let’s grab a pizza and play another round.”
“Um,” Finklestein said.
“What’s up, Finklestein—something on your mind?” God looked suddenly like Jack Nicholson. A cockney Jack Nicholson. “Lay it on me, old son.”
“Well,” said Finklestein. “You did say to let You know if there was something.”
“And?” God/Nicholson looked bored.
“I’m not happy.”
Dean dropped his glass. The beer splashed all over his motor cycle boots, only to disappear instantly. Paradise was an inherently tidy place.
“You’re kidding, right?” God said. “One of these jokers put you up to it? Who was it? Elvis? I bet it was Elvis—he can’t resist a prank. Good one, Finkelstein.”
“I mean it,” Finklestein said, ignoring the expression on Dean and Moses’ faces.
“You can’t be serious,” God said, petulantly. Then, lapsing into biblical: “Why, you want for nothing.”
“That’s just it,” Finklestein said. “I need to want for something. It’s boring. I mean, I want to lay Cleopatra and there she is. I want to talk to JFK about that single bullet thing and—well, You get the picture.”
“I thought that single bullet thing was one of My best jokes,” God whined. “How come nobody got it?”
“I miss rainy days,” Finklestein rambled on, warming to the topic. “I miss Fall and snow and the Cubs losing again. I miss Richard Nixon.”
“I miss travelling—” Moses put in, unexpectedly. He glanced nervously at God. “Not that I’m not perfectly happy,” he added, quickly. “But I think I know where old Finklestein here is coming from. That desert heat was a pain in the—well, it was a pain. And those people always whining—I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, maybe you should ask directions… but the days when it really worked. Oy! Nothing can beat it.”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “And driving a car one-twenty an hour when you’d had a drop too much—Man, I miss those days.”
God was very quiet. “Hm,” He said.
It turned out that most of the people in heaven were unhappy about something. Doctors missed playing god and having to take second place to the real thing. Dickens missed London, Steinbeck California, and Hemingway Life (he proclaimed, with a capital L).
“I’d lose my other ear to walk through a real sunflower field,” Van Gogh mused to Churchill.
“I’d give anything to fight another war,” Churchill said. There was silence. “What? What did I say?”
“You’ve really started something, Finklestein,” God said, later. He called up a prefab night with dazzling stars and whirling comets. He and Finklestein sat by the ocean listening to Mozart and John Lennon playing a duet.
“Sorry,” Finklestein mumbled.
“I mean, this is Heaven,” God protested. “If word of this gets out—” He shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it.”
“It’s not that there’s anything really wrong,” Finklestein said. “There are worse places,” he looked down, pointedly.
God shrugged. “This wouldn’t be Paradise with people like Hitler and Stalin and Simon Cowell walking around—”
“Cowell’s still alive.”
“He is? Oh yeah, must make a note. Anyway, you get My point?”
“Mm.”
“I mean, the whole thing is you should lack for nothing, you know?”
“I know.”
“And it turns out everyone here misses something. They all think Paradise is too perfect. Well, except the Catholics. They think it’s too Jewish.”
“It’s a problem,” Finklestein said. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“No, no,” the Creator said, forgiveness being His schtick, and all. “I’m glad you did. I think I am. I mean, I didn’t even know there was a problem. You don’t have any suggestions?”
“There are better minds than mine around here,” Finklestein said, humbly.
“I know,” God said, ignoring the humility. “Einstein, Socrates, Gavin—”
“Who?”
“Joe Gavin, great bloke. An Irish philosopher, if you can imagine such a thing.”
“So what do they say?”
God shrugged. “It’s a problem.”
Finklestein felt responsible. After all, Paradise had functioned perfectly well before he showed up. Sure, everyone felt a bit empty, but at least they’d had the brains to keep their mouths shut.
“Any ideas?” he asked Nietzsche later.
The great philosopher shook his head. “Don’t ask me, friend. I’m still dealing with the concept of God.”
Spinoza, Sartre, Socrates—no one had any ideas. Maybe he was asking the wrong people. He talked to religious experts, but neither Pope nor Rabbi could help.
“I feel responsible,” he confided in Moses. They were playing backgammon and the old prophet
was having incredible luck with the dice.
“What’s to feel responsible?” Moses said. “Ah, double six! You were just honest, is all. It’s acceptable around here. Even required. Don’t think the Lord will hold it against you; He’s pretty forgiving. Well, most of the time. He still gets pretty steamed if you mention the Inquisition… That’s another game to me. You’re not having a whole lot of luck lately, are you,
Finklestein?”
Finklestein visited the brilliant and the once-famous. To a man they told him to quit worrying. “You’ll just make things worse for yourself, Finklestein,” Galileo said. “And believe me, I know!”
Still, it gnawed at him and he decided at last to take the bull by the horns, in a manner of speaking. He found God fishing with Michael Landon. “Oy, Finklestein,” the Creator said. “Why so glum?”
“I wanted to talk to You about this problem I found. I’ve spent a lot of time lately talking to the brilliant in the hopes that they may be able to make some suggestions. But no one can. I guess we’re stuck. I feel it’s all my fault.”
“Tosh!” God said. “That was always your problem, Finklestein—trying to take control over every situation. That’s why Madeline killed you. Well, one of the reasons. ”
“Yes, but what are we going do?”
“We?” God suddenly seemed like God. Not the George Burns variety, but a Cecil B. DeMille type. Maybe a vengeful alien in Star Trek. “Listen, mate,” God said. “I take care of all the problems around here; it’s in the job description. Anyway, I already found the solution.”
“You did?”
“Sure, I was kinda tired when you brought it up, but I’m well rested now. I mean, Somalia, India and Israel are off my back for the moment. Anyway, I think you’ll like what I have in mind.”
“And what, if I may be so bold as to ask—”
“Ask away. It’s like this: People are just complacent. It’s not just that they are bored or miss things; that sense of danger isn’t there any more. So I’ve decided to put it back.”
“Put it back?”
God snickered. “You’re gonna love it. In fact, I think I’m gonna call it the Finklestein Formula, then everyone will know how you inspired Me.”
Finklestein felt a sudden chill of presentiment. “I did?”
“The plan, you see, is that you get to experience what you’re missing. Once a year I’ll send everyone back to experience the worst moment of their lives again. Only, since no one but Me can keep track of time around here, it’ll come as a surprise. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“Um—”
“And like I said, I’ll be sure to let you have all the credit. What could be fairer?” God smiled dangerously. “They’ll be lining up around the block to thank you.”
“That really isn’t necessary,” Finklestein said. “I wouldn’t want to take credit for another man’s work—”
“Nonsense! Besides, I’m not a man. Get ready.”
“Ready?”
* * *
Finklestein found himself staring down the barrel of an enormous gun.
“It’s big, isn’t it?” Madeline said in her winsome way. “ I know they say size isn’t everything, but,” she pouted. “I’ve never really believed that. Have you?”
Finklestein moaned.
Any Knight Won't Do
Chapter One
Once upon a time there lived a handsome youth in the lonely village of Sou’Sea. He lived with his family in a small cottage and as is the way in such tales, they were poor but happy. The young man longed to travel, to achieve greatness, and, especially, to become a knight of the Order of Joseph. He studied the techniques of all the great knights in the kingdom, such as Sir Michael of Ball and Lord Joshua of Groban, but it seemed impossible that a poor and humble youth could achieve the kind of honour he craved.
One day, as the youth wandered through the lonely Garden of Covent, a small man appeared with a sudden *poof*. He was wearing a pink tutu and a lime green jacket which, though jarring to the eyes was not alarming to the youth, for in the Garden of Covent such strange sights were not uncommon. The garishly-attired man glanced at his clothing and tittered. “Sorry, I forgot to change!” he said and, with a flick of his wand, transformed his outfit to a lime green suit and a cerise silk shirt. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I hate to be flashy!”
“Who are you?” the youth asked.
“My name is Gray’mm, I am your fairy godfather,” said the other. “Your cries have been heard and I am here to help you achieve the deepest wish of your heart.”
“To become a knight of the Order of Joseph?”
“That, but much more besides. You have been set a series of challenges, which you must overcome. If you are successful, the knighthood of Joseph will be yours, and you will be crowned King of the royal Kingdom of Adelphi!”
“Wow,” said Our Hero. “That’s amazing!”
“Naw,” said Gray’mm. “It’s a fairy tale.” (At this point, he turned knowingly, as if he was looking at a camera. It was very puzzling to the youth.)
“What sort of challenges?” the youth asked. “Must I slay dragons, rescue maidens…?”
“You’ve been reading too much fiction,” Gray’mm said. “There are very few dragons around any more. Most of them work as critics in disreputable newspapers, but they’re toothless. And maidens are more likely, these days, to do the rescuing. You’ll be told the challenges as they come up. And don’t worry, you’ll have help.”
“What sort of help?”
“Four trusted muses will be assigned to you. They will act as guides to see you have the skills you need to overcome any obstacles you may face.
“Four?” said the youth. “But I thought there were supposed to be nine?”
“Yes, but this is a cut-rate story. We can’t afford any more than four. Anyway, I will be here, of course, and then there’s Dot.”
“Dot?”
“Well, it’s the Wise Wizard Webber, in full, or WWW. We call him Dot for short. Come now, Sir Lee, (for so I dub thee). Are you up to the challenge?”
Sir Lee bowed his head humbly and said, “I am.”
Once upon a time there lived a handsome youth in the lonely village of Sou’Sea. He lived with his family in a small cottage and as is the way in such tales, they were poor but happy. The young man longed to travel, to achieve greatness, and, especially, to become a knight of the Order of Joseph. He studied the techniques of all the great knights in the kingdom, such as Sir Michael of Ball and Lord Joshua of Groban, but it seemed impossible that a poor and humble youth could achieve the kind of honour he craved.
One day, as the youth wandered through the lonely Garden of Covent, a small man appeared with a sudden *poof*. He was wearing a pink tutu and a lime green jacket which, though jarring to the eyes was not alarming to the youth, for in the Garden of Covent such strange sights were not uncommon. The garishly-attired man glanced at his clothing and tittered. “Sorry, I forgot to change!” he said and, with a flick of his wand, transformed his outfit to a lime green suit and a cerise silk shirt. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I hate to be flashy!”
“Who are you?” the youth asked.
“My name is Gray’mm, I am your fairy godfather,” said the other. “Your cries have been heard and I am here to help you achieve the deepest wish of your heart.”
“To become a knight of the Order of Joseph?”
“That, but much more besides. You have been set a series of challenges, which you must overcome. If you are successful, the knighthood of Joseph will be yours, and you will be crowned King of the royal Kingdom of Adelphi!”
“Wow,” said Our Hero. “That’s amazing!”
“Naw,” said Gray’mm. “It’s a fairy tale.” (At this point, he turned knowingly, as if he was looking at a camera. It was very puzzling to the youth.)
“What sort of challenges?” the youth asked. “Must I slay dragons, rescue maidens…?”
“You’ve been reading too much fiction,” Gray’mm said. “There are very few dragons around any more. Most of them work as critics in disreputable newspapers, but they’re toothless. And maidens are more likely, these days, to do the rescuing. You’ll be told the challenges as they come up. And don’t worry, you’ll have help.”
“What sort of help?”
“Four trusted muses will be assigned to you. They will act as guides to see you have the skills you need to overcome any obstacles you may face.
“Four?” said the youth. “But I thought there were supposed to be nine?”
“Yes, but this is a cut-rate story. We can’t afford any more than four. Anyway, I will be here, of course, and then there’s Dot.”
“Dot?”
“Well, it’s the Wise Wizard Webber, in full, or WWW. We call him Dot for short. Come now, Sir Lee, (for so I dub thee). Are you up to the challenge?”
Sir Lee bowed his head humbly and said, “I am.”
Friday, May 15, 2009
BREATHE YOU OUT
PROLOGUE
“…Eighty-seven… eighty-eight… eighty-nine…”
“…Eighty-seven… eighty-eight… eighty-nine…”
His breath was being ripped from his lungs in ragged gasps with his agonising effort to breathe, but he didn’t—couldn’t stop.
His body pumped up and down on the cold black parquet and the sweat coursed down his naked back, down his muscular arms and thighs, and pooled onto the floor beneath him.
His feet were balanced on the piano stool, his hands on the floor and he continued to work the press-ups long beyond his point of endurance.
Mick Jagger’s harsh vocals vibrated throughout the room, “I wanna see it painted – painted black – black as night—black as coal…” The heavy drum beat pounded in his head yet still he couldn’t control his body and make himself stop.
He couldn’t endure any more. His muscles were beyond the point of agony; he just couldn’t go on… And yet, and yet…
Suddenly his right hand slipped on the pool of his own perspiration and he fell forward. He landed uncomfortably on the floor and his exhausted body curled into a foetal position.
He gasped and shivered in the indifferent moonlight and then the darkness and the ice possessed him.
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