Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Top Writers Block
    Top Writers Block
    Top Writers Block
    Ebook458 pages6 hours

    Top Writers Block

    By Top Writers Block

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Grab your copy at the reduced price - one week only!
    An anthology of 41 short stories by a group of indie authors from around the world. Mystery, horror, romance and fantasy means that there is something for everyone. A wonderful means of discovering new authors to add to your favourites.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTop Writers Block
    Release dateFeb 20, 2014
    ISBN9781310573101
    Top Writers Block
    Author

    Top Writers Block

    Top Writers Block is a diverse and eclectic group of talented writers who decided to write stories together - just for the fun of it! We are happy to announce that authors proceeds have always gone, and will continue to go, to Sea Shepherd.fr every time Smashwords has made a payment! Thank you to those who have supported the group, independent authors, and Sea Shepherd. Our collections are usually written with one theme or genre in mind. Each author contributes when they have the time, so some of the collections have as many as twelve authors participating. Every collection has something new, with stories and poems ranging from romance, drama, and adventure to mystery, fantasy, and horror. All the Top Writers Block's proceeds will go to Sea Shepherd, so by buying you are helping to keep our oceans alive! Thank You all so much!

    Read more from Top Writers Block

    Related to Top Writers Block

    Related ebooks

    Anthologies For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Mrs Macarthur’s Secret Diary

      Jun 17, 2020

      Mrs Macarthur’s Secret Diary
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Family Plot

      May 7, 2020

      The Family Plot
      10 min read

    • Article

      Mrs Macarthur’s Secret Diary

      Jun 17, 2020

      Mrs Macarthur’s Secret Diary
      7 min read

    • Article

      Winning Letter

      Jun 2, 2023

      THERE’S nothing that brings a significant moment or period in history quite to life like someone telling their personal story of how it affected them. This week we have one of those special insights into a period in time that’s still remembered with

      5 min read

    • Article

      It Takes Blood And Guts

      Nov 21, 2020

      I’m sitting on Skin’s terrace in Ibiza, soaking up the late summer sunshine via the magic of the internet. It’s the closest I’ve come to travel since the start of the panny danny and looking out my window at the dark Edinburgh sky, I’ll take all the

      6 min read

    • Article

      Cast Out

      Jul 10, 2021

      Verity pushed back the quilts, rolled off her straw mattress onto the floor, felt for the poker, and stirred the ashes. The embers glowed. She wouldn’t have to go fire-borrowing again. Her chilled hands were clumsy. One glowing bit of wood rolled fro

      21 min read

    • Article

      Cricket League

      Jan 1, 2022

      It was an unusual birthday. Colorful banners blanketed the backyard. Kids chased each other through the grass. Adults talked. It all went downhill from there. My little sister was turning five. On her birthday cake, painted in frosting, was a fat, pi

      7 min read

    • Article

      Ben Marcus

      Jun 15, 2018

      My wife, Gin, once knocked gently on my head, as if it were a door. “Hello,” she kept saying. “Hello. Who’s in there?” She and our therapist, Dr. Sherby, laughed a little about this, so I did, too. What fun. Keep knocking on my head like that, like i

      23 min read

    • Article

      Summer Books Special!

      Dec 28, 2023

      Summer Books Special!
      9 min read

    • Article

      Daisy’s Day In The Sun

      Jul 12, 2022

      Daisy’s Day In The Sun
      8 min read

    • Article

      A Little About Why

      Jun 1, 2023

      A Little About Why
      15 min read

    • Article

      After “The End”

      Oct 10, 2022

      I walked down the road with a hunched back and a wet cigarette in my mouth—the fire had died a while back. My hands were tucked into the pockets of my jacket, and my hair fell over my face, limiting my sight. But I wasn’t really seeing where I was go

      10 min read

    • Article

      Four Of A Kind

      May 3, 2023

      Four Of A Kind
      4 min read

    • Article

      The Reluctant Medium

      Feb 3, 2020

      The Reluctant Medium
      6 min read

    • Article

      The Silence of Witches

      Dec 10, 2019

      The Silence of Witches
      6 min read

    • Article

      Notes on Etiquette

      Mar 1, 2019

      Notes on Etiquette
      10 min read

    • Article

      Mermaid Magic

      Jun 30, 2023

      SHE couldn’t have asked for better timing: to release a book about a mermaid just as the smash-hit Disney movie The Little Mermaid hits the screen. Zandile Ndhlovu’s new book focuses on a girl from Soweto named Zandi who yearns to explore the ocean.

      2 min read

    • Article

      Refuge

      May 2, 2017

      Refuge
      7 min read

    • Article

      Me & Davey Waters

      Jan 15, 2023

      Me & Davey Waters
      4 min read

    • Article

      SHORT STORY by MARGARET ATWOOD

      Mar 22, 2023

      SHORT STORY by MARGARET ATWOOD
      7 min read

    • Article

      Luis Alberto Urrea

      Jun 12, 2023

      Luis Alberto Urrea
      12 min read

    • Article

      AN EXCERPT FROM The First Line of Dante’s ‘Inferno’

      Dec 1, 2020

      Early forties, tall, self-possessed. Hiking in the woods in search of her missing sister. A young park ranger, late twenties. Pretty. Slim. Strong. The play is formatted like prose; however, it is intended for performance. If actors simply perform th

      15 min read

    • Article

      ME, Myself, I

      Nov 17, 2021

      ME, Myself, I
      9 min read

    • Article

      Two Poems

      Jul 1, 2023

      I The teenaged girl is searching for a placethat goes through, the holeto put the tampon inside. When she finds itshe asks her mother, Is this where the penis would go?Yes, her mother explains.Then I will never have sex. II Sweltering New York City.

      5 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Top Writers Block

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Top Writers Block - Top Writers Block

      by Alison Blake

      It was starting again. It always started off beautifully. He was in a green meadow, not far from the forest edge. A wide but shallow river splashed nearby. He was sitting on a large flat rock, enjoying the sun, the soft breeze, and the occasional splash of cool water. Life was good. Off in the distance he could see Myya and their two young ones playing a game of tag. But of course it couldn't last, it never did.

      There it was. The call, the compulsion, the craving, whatever you wanted to call it, he could feel it now. It was growing stronger and stronger.

      Ignore it. Focus on how good life is right here, right now. Fight it.

      Don’t get up. Stay where you are. He rose and stretched, opened wide his mouth with a terrific yawn, shrugged his shoulders, and turned his neck from side to side. Nothing helped. It wouldn't go away, just grew stronger.

      Now he was walking. Don’t go there, he told himself. Go the other direction. Not possible. He was walking faster now, drawing closer. Now he was running. He could see it across the meadow.

      Nothing to be afraid of, he assured himself. You’ll wake up in time, you always do.

      But what if he didn’t? Because if he didn’t, something monstrous would possess him, would rip him into gory confetti, destroy him and this life he was living. He was closer now. Even if this was a dream, he was able to recognize its incongruity. There in the green meadow, with nothing surrounding it, standing unsupported, a blue door. It was wide open. He could see through it to the other side. The other sky was gray and unwelcoming, dark clouds were being buffeted by high winds. On this side, the good side, the velvety green grass, came right up to the doorsill then suddenly changed into a streaky blood red on the other side. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, inviting about that doorway.

      I won’t go through. I don't have to. But he did. He was being drawn as surely as though he was caught in an invisible net that was pulling him closer and closer. He was sweating, his heart pounding, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. If he went through that door … if he didn't wake up in time…I don’t want to die!

      He thrashed around frantically, trying to back up, trying to wake up. His entire body was being drawn into the magnetic field of that doorway to death. He was half turned away, but that didn't stop his inevitable advance. He'd be pulled through sideways in a moment. His bare paws scrambled for a hold on the beautiful green meadow grass. Oh God. Wake up. Wake up. Don't go through there, wake up, wake up! And then the tip of his nose …

      He was lying in his own bed listening to his wife screech at him. Well are you going to get up or not? I got breakfast ready. You’re gonna be late for work again. All you do is lie in bed and dream.

      He opened one eye carefully. Yeah, there she was. Overweight, frowzy scowling; his better half. How long had they been married now? She had been so beautiful at one time. Okay, maybe not beautiful, but she’d been slim and well dressed and smiled a lot.

      His wife, frowzy and unsatisfied, turned and stalked from the room slamming the door behind her.

      ***

      When he finally dragged his tired body into the office, work was no better.

      When you going to have that report ready? You still don't know how to work that computer program! Everyone else can do it, why can't you? Breaks are supposed to be fifteen minutes, not thirty. Your shirt looks like you slept in it and when was the last time you shined your shoes? This is an office, buddy, not a homeless shelter. Are you daydreaming again? You’re leaving already? That report better be on my desk first thing tomorrow.

      He was climbing the steps from the subway, hot, sweaty, and thirsty, wondering if he dared stop off for just one beer, when the man with the gun appeared. He was chasing a frantic, terrified woman who was clutching a child to her breast and screaming as she ran. Help me. Help me.

      The crowd issuing up the funnel of the subway steps surged around him, pressed against him, pushed and elbowed to get away from the screaming woman and her pursuer. The Dreamer just stood there with his mouth open, buffeted by the crowd, unable to believe what he was seeing.

      The woman stumbled, fell to her knees, all the time keeping a death grip upon the child she held so close to her. She leaned weakly against the cement subway entrance. Turning her body to protect her baby, she held up her hand, palm out, as if she could catch the bullet, deflect the bullet, stop the bullet. The gunman had caught up to her. He grabbed her by the hair, forcing her head back and pushed the muzzle of the pistol hard against the side of her head.

      At this moment there were only three people in the whole world, four, if you counted the baby. The Dreamer stood just feet from the disaster that was about to happen.

      No, begged the woman. The gunmen grinned down at her. In slow motion the Dreamer stepped forth and took hold of the gunmen's wrist. It was so futile, it was so useless, why hadn't he run like everyone else? The gunmen turned, actually smiled at him as if he had been waiting for just such an opportunity. He was incredibly strong, the Dreamer was no match for him. The Dreamer's hand couldn't even go around the gunmen's wrist, let alone yank it away from its murderous intent. But to his surprise, the gunman’s wrist did move, in fact his whole arm moved. Still holding onto the woman's hair, the gunmen pivoted slightly so that he was face to face with the Dreamer.

      Now the Dreamer had both hands around the gunmen's wrist. It made no difference. With a grin of absolute delight, the gunmen raised his wrist bringing along the Dreamer's hands, until the pistol was directly centered on the Dreamer's forehead. Dreamer and gunmen stared straight into other’s eyes. Then the gunmen pulled the trigger.

      ***

      He awoke with a bark, sat up shaking with fear, and looked around him. He was back in the green meadow, off in the distance, his mate and their cubs still played tag.

      Up close, too close, standing by itself without any obvious means of support, stood the blue door. For the first time since the dreams had started, the door was closed. The Dreamer stood up on all fours, shook himself all over, gave a great yawn that exposed all his razor sharp teeth. Then he walked over to the door, sniffed at it, raised his leg and peed on it, then turned and trotted off to his family.

      Thank God he was a wolf and not a man.

      2

      The Old Yacht

      by Elizabeth Rowan Keith

      A vacation. Finally. Years of demands had prevented an opportunity to travel. David and his wife walked through the marina, hand-in-hand, casually commenting on the yachts of other visitors. Bright sun and gentle sea breeze made the day perfect. It would not be easy to leave these islands.

      Strolling down the wooden walkway, David barely noted the small, old yacht in favor of the visual treats on newer, more finely-featured surroundings moored at the slips. He didn’t truly see the simple craft until he felt his wife suddenly stiffen, let loose of his hand, and turn back. She stopped a dozen meters away, facing a man who had just stepped off the old yacht.

      The man froze at the sight of her, eyes wide and mouth slightly fallen open. David didn’t move as his wife easily slid into the arms of the man as he held them open to her. It shocked David to see how well she fit there. The two of them held each other for what seemed like a very long time.

      David’s wife and the man stepped apart, but remained in each other’s loose embrace. I thought that was you, she said in the soft voice of a long lost love.

      I didn’t think I would ever see you again. The man’s voice was equal to hers, with perhaps a bit more yearning. It’s been a very long time.

      It has, she agreed as she softly caressed his face.

      The two of them continued to study each other. David wondered how long it had been. He scanned through his memories of his wife’s stories of her past. Had she mentioned someone who would have an English accent?

      What are you called now? David heard his wife ask the man.

      Michael James, he replied.

      Good choice. She was thoughtful for a moment.

      You? the man asked.

      The same, she said.

      David was relieved when his wife stepped back out of the man’s embrace and gestured toward the old yacht. I see not everything has changed.

      No, said Michael James looking toward his domain. I keep patching her up. That’s why I’m here—repairs. She suits me.

      He looked meaningfully at David’s wife. So do the memories.

      David saw his wife move as if she were becoming uncomfortable. She turned slightly away from Michael.

      Painfully he asked, How long did you hate me?

      Two years, she said. Then I understood why you had to leave me.

      It took you that long? Michael seemed surprised.

      I was that hurt, she said. And it was hell making it back to the States.

      I left you plenty of money.

      There was none when I returned.

      Bastards, he said. Did they leave you alone after it was done?

      No. She said.

      Michael James took David’s wife into his arms again, boldly kissing her on the forehead and urgently caressing her hair. His eyes moved past her and met David’s. The two of them regarded each other as would enemies about to engage in combat.

      Michael stiffened and held David’s wife back from him. When can I see you again?

      David heard his wife say, I’ll be here for another five days. She gently but firmly added, We can talk.

      Michael’s eyes went to David standing on the dock. They both heard her say, I’m married.

      Michael seemed to wilt a bit. You always were loyal to a fault. He smiled sadly at her. Will I have a chance again?

      When I am widowed, she said. Find me then.

      Michael’s smile faded and he looked down at the dock between their feet. He was silent.

      It must have been a long time already, David thought. He looked at the small, old yacht. Worn, repaired, and dulled with time and travel, it was sufficient for one, close for two.

      David’s wife sparkled, even from behind, as she teased, It will give you time to buy a bigger boat.

      After an instant of irritation Michael seemed to know she was pushing an old button to see if it still worked. He couldn’t help but smile.

      It’s not a boat, he replied with well-worn delivery. It’s a yacht.

      David had hardly adjusted to the sight of his wife suddenly in another man’s arms. He was torn between respect for her privacy and a nearly overwhelming desire to shove the guy into the sea.

      Michael looked past the woman who had just left his embrace to view her husband. Michael nodded a slight bow, conceding to David’s current claim on the woman they both loved.

      David’s wife looked at him, and then back to Michael James. He’s a good man, he heard her say. He’s going to have questions.

      You never told him? Michael asked.

      I tried once, she replied. I don’t think he believed me.

      David thought back to a tale she had once tried to tell him about a man and some kind of international intrigue. That was years ago. He’d passed off the improbable story as her singular break with reality. Now he wished he could remember what she had said, and that he had believed her.

      Well, not many could, Michael James said generously. He may listen now.

      Yes. I should go. I will look for you tomorrow.

      Will he allow that? asked Michael.

      I’m married—not a prisoner of war, David heard his wife say. Everything will be fine.

      David wasn’t sure everything would be fine. Although the posturing was momentarily over, the circumstances were not. This man clearly loved David’s wife. Tension between the men was obvious. She made no move to introduce them.

      David’s wife smiled at him. Turning back to Michael James, she promised to see him the next day. It was with huge relief that David watched her first steps back toward him. He realized he had half-expected her to step onto the old yacht and disappear behind the freshly painted cabin door.

      3

      The Painted Door

      by David Waine

      Alderney Manor was the biggest old house still in private hands that the town could boast. I felt a swell of pride as I rounded the final bend and it swung into view in the middle of its own personal clump of trees, an oasis of rural England in a desert of urban development.

      Used to stand in its own grounds, it did, Jethro, I mentioned proudly to the good for nothing layabout in the passenger seat.

      I know, dad, he mumbled back. The old bat sold ‘em off a couple of years back to some builder who outbid you, so he got to put up all these des-res things — and got the money for ‘em, needless to add.

      Not a problem, son, I replied. Mrs. Protheroe is the most sought-after client in the whole town. We got our foot in the door, lad. This will be the making of us!

      I pulled the van up outside the elegant early Victorian mansion and we alighted. It was cool under the shade of the trees, a gentle breeze just stirring the leaves.

      Smell that fresh air.

      Jethro stared at me quizzically. You still got yer cold?

      I looked right back at him, straight along my nose. "What if I have?

      He had that insolent, ‘I-know-better-than-you-do’ look on his face, the one he wears every time he thinks something new has popped into his head. Cause you give it to me and I can’t smell a damned thing, so if I can’t, you can’t.

      I shrugged. Well I can imagine what it smells like, can’t I? I still got my memories. Turning, I picked up my toolkit from the back of the van and pressed the bell.

      We waited for a full half minute before the great oak door creaked slightly open and a wizened old face peered out at us from behind a pair of half-moon spectacles. Yes? Her voice sounded as rusty as the hinges.

      Mrs. Protheroe? I asked in my best introducing-myself kind of voice, even though I knew who she was because I had seen her opening garden fetes since before Noah took up boat building.

      Are you Liftham and Shiftham? she asked.

      We are, ma’am, I smiled. Silas and Jethro Totheridge. I’m Liftham, he’s Shiftham.

      Very good, she nodded. It’s the back door that needs your attention. If you would just like to make your way round, I shall see you there. There is a path that way, she told us, pointing in a direction to our right. By the time we returned our eyes to face front, the door had closed again.

      Jethro and I looked at each other.

      It would have been nice to see inside the house, I remarked.

      Dad, we’re trade, he replied, rolling his eyes. She doesn’t have the likes of us in the house. Come on.

      We are not ‘trade’, I remonstrated as we made our way round the side of the house along a narrow path through the shrubbery. We are men of business. How many times do I have to tell you that?

      We rounded the back of the building to find it nothing like as grand as the front. Whereas the façade was of dignified Portland stone, the back was dreary old red brick and gave onto a dusty yard. Beyond this was the garden, once extensive and immaculately kept, but now showing signs of becoming overgrown.

      Are you sure this is our foot in the door, dad? Jethro whispered to me.

      Not so close, son, I growled softly, I don’t want my cold back again.

      Mrs. Protheroe was waiting for us by the back door, which was the most startling shade of electric blue.

      This is it, she greeted us, indicating the door.

      Yes, ma’am, I piped up in my best business-like voice. What seems to be the problem?

      It’s stuck, she explained. Hector was painting it when suddenly it wouldn’t open again.

      Hector?

      My husband, she explained, he’s eighty-three and he really isn’t up to this sort of thing anymore. I had to let him in through the kitchen window so he could have a lie down. That is how I had to get out to greet you.

      Ah, I see, I said, examining the door. Straightening, I nodded in a professional manner. It’s no great problem to a professional, Mrs. Protheroe. It’s just dropped slightly on its hinges. All we got to do is raise it a little bit on wooden chocks so we can get it open, then tighten the screws back up and it should be fine.

      She looked ingenuous. Really? Is it as simple as that?

      All things are possible to us, Mrs. Protheroe, I smiled. Jethro, the chocks!

      Jethro complained as he rummaged in the tool bag for the chocks. I thought you was Liftham. How come I’m liftin’ the door?

      Privilege of bein’ the senior partner, I explained with a smiling nod to our client. Placing the chocks carefully, I readied the hammer to knock them in. Okay, son, I cried, Lift her up.

      Taking hold of the large brass doorknob with both hands, Jethro strained at it for all he was worth.

      I can’t move it! he cried at last, relinquishing his grip and shaking his arms.

      Heavy, is it? I asked.

      I should think so, replied Mrs. Protheroe. It’s three inches of solid oak. I imagine it would weigh about half a ton.

      Hmm, I said in my best thoughtful voice. That complicates matters. We’ll need to lift it together from each side. You do the inside.

      How am I supposed to get in there? protested my idle son.

      Through the kitchen window, of course! I barked back. If Mrs. Protheroe can get out through it, you can get in.

      Grumbling, he went, heaving himself, head first, through the narrow gap. He strained and snarled, but at last his feet disappeared inside and his voice announced that he had completed the journey unscathed.

      Right, you get the…

      My words were cut off by a metallic rasp and crash, punctuated by a sharp cry of pain from Jethro.

      Oh dear, are you all right, Mr. Shiftham? asked our employer worriedly.

      There was an ominous pause before Jethro answered. I’m all right. Slipped on a wok.

      Mrs. Protheroe was horrified. Oh no, we leave that there to catch the drips from the bathroom. I’m terribly sorry.

      No problem, Mrs. Protheroe, returned Jethro. Nothing broken — except possibly my back, he mumbled.

      Right, son, I cried, You grab the knob on the inside and I’ll take this one. We lift together on the count of three and I’ll kick the first chock in. I turned to Mrs. Protheroe with a smile. After that it should be plain sailing. Ready son?

      Ready.

      One… Two… Three… Lift!

      We both strained together to the very limit of our strength, pressed against the door and heaving for all we were worth. The weight was unbelievable. It seemed that it would not move for an age, but then it did. It moved a millimetre, then two, then three — a tap of my foot and the first chock was home.

      With inexpressible relief, we both relinquished our grips on the doorknobs. I peeled myself from the door with a sucking noise. Looking down, I discovered that my very best overalls had were marked with large electric blue blotches.

      Dad? The voice came from the other side of the door.

      Yes, son?

      I’m covered in blue paint.

      Yes, yes, that’s right. intervened Mrs. Protheroe. I did explain that Hector was painting the door.

      4

      Door Chorus

      by Suzy Stewart Dubot

      She had had trouble choosing a colour. Each wooden counter had been painted to shiny perfection, making her want that particular tint until she had moved on to the next, which was just as pleasing to the eye. The dangling wooden samples had clicked against each other on the ring, cheerfully reminding her of chirping sparrows. The smoothly sanded wooden backs contrasted with their sleekly painted fronts; wood-side warm, paint-side cool. Everything about the pieces was appealing. She had sighed as she fingered them sensually, wondering if the shop would notice if she stole the ring holding them all. Then she had noticed that the very last counter was, in fact, an anti-theft tag. Apparently they knew that the shiny nuances of colour, with their sound of chirping birds, were a temptation.

      She associated the twittering birds with that time in the morning when dawn breaks and the birds sing, happy to be alive. She wanted to sing too but not just at dawn. She was alive and free of a tyrant husband who had ruined the last ten years of her life! Now he was gone, which was why she had wanted to redecorated the room that had witnessed their last dispute. It had been violent too, not just words. His eyes had shown the moment when he had finally understood that he had lost. It had been too late for him to reform.

      During each of their disputes, he had always made sure that he had been in control. It was the power that he had loved. Push her to her limits and then make her the guilty party, begging for forgiveness as he had twisted an arm, pinched her or pulled on her hair. Nothing too serious, only enough to hint at what he was capable of doing.

      But he had pushed her once too often; this last clash had been the straw that had broken the camel’s back. He had lost his grip on her. She had sworn that she would never let him back into her life and he had seen that she had meant it. None of his cajoling nor pleading had done a whit of good in the end. As her razor sharp words had sliced into him, not leaving him the least respite, he had finally understood that it was over and he had ultimately failed.

      At present, the room was finished. Stripped of the old wallpaper, which she had wasted no time in burning (bad memories gone up in smoke), it now boasted several coats of white emulsion on the walls and ceiling and a brilliant white gloss on the wainscoting. As a very special treat, she had left the door until last. She had looked forward to the large smooth surface because the slicking of paint, up and down, up and down, up and down, was a balm for her soul.

      It had been the ‘scarlet’ which had won her choice in the end. Such a vibrant colour! Of course, she had her ‘ex’ to thank for that, she grudgingly admitted; the redecoration of the whole room, in fact. If his blood hadn’t spurted everywhere, she might never have considered it but it had looked quite amazing on the white door – until it had dried. Who would have thought that a letter opener could be responsible for so much blood?

      Damn, the man. She had him to thank for the discovery of the dawn chorus too. If she hadn’t been in the garden adding the last shovel-full of earth to his grave when the chirping had begun, she might never have discovered that pleasure. It and the painted door would be forever associated with her freedom. No wonder the paint counters sounded like birds…

      Once the paint on the door was perfectly dry, she would hang the pilfered ring of beautiful counters on its handle. They would be a constant reminder that she was glad to be alive and free. As she looked around the room, she smiled, pleased with a job well done. Yes, the scarlet paint was the perfect choice. Absolutely stunning against the white!

      5

      Tales from the Painted Door:

      Davaidh and annie

      by David Keith

      Conversation hummed and buzzed quietly, punctuated by laughter, coughing, and the thud of mug hitting table. Over in the corner by the men’s room, Oly farted, which caused a burst of racuous laughter and loud jeers, with a few cheers thrown in by the fart afficionados in the crowd. All in all, it was a typical Wednesday night at the Door.

      My name’s Chris and I own this place, The Painted Door. I bought it—it was known as Dougie’s Place then—for a song about 15 years ago now, when Dougie went to live in Belize of all places. I call it a pub, and it is, just not what folks in England or Ireland would see as one. Most people just call it a bar and that’s fine. It doesn’t matter so long as they lay their money down. The Door’s just a regular neighborhood joint that serves mostly beer and burgers to a cadre of customers in southeast Wichita.

      Bert’s the cook and Angela, Beth, and Tammy work the floor, haulin’ booze and food out and dirty dishes back in. That’s it: just the five of us. We don’t even have a bouncer—don’t need one. Bert and I can handle what little trouble we do have and all those Air Force guys from McConnell and cops from WPD are more than happy to bust a few heads that need bustin’.

      Bein’ as the Door is a neighborhood place, the customers are mostly from the local area and consider this kind of a family. Hell, we even have a picnic every summer so the staff and customers can sit down together for a burger and a beer or two.

      Because we see ourselves as family, we’re always ready to jump in and help each other out, whether with helpin’ someone get food or their house painted or just a shoulder to cry on.

      Like what happened tonight.

      As I said, it started out as just another Wednesday night at the Door. Even Oly’s farting was normal—that big Swede is the fartingest guy I’ve ever known. His wife has to be either the saintliest woman on earth or her nose stopped working a long time ago.

      Yep, just another Wednesday night. Until Davaidh staggered in.

      Davaidh (prounced like Davie) helped put airplanes together at the Cessna plant and had been there for something like 18 years or so. He’d never missed a day as far as anyone at the Door knew and had risen to foreman with four guys underneath him. He said he planned to hang it up in two or three years so he and Anne, his wife, could travel. Davaidh really wanted to go back to his hometown in Scotland so he could show Annie how beautiful it is and all.

      As I was sayin’, around 7:30 or so, the door crashed open and Davaidh staggered in, cryin’ like a baby. Davaidh, like everyone else at the Door, liked to drink—his particular poison was single-malt scotch, him being a fine and proper Scotsman and all—but no one could recall ever seeing him drunk. Not this drunk, anyway. He was barely able to walk, he was, and almost knocked Tim’s beer off the table when he bumped into it.

      Davaidh never said a word, neither, but just blubbered and bawled like a kid whose mama had just warmed his diapers for him. We all just sort of assumed he was drunk as a skunk and moved aside to keep him from spilling our drinks. Me, I just stood there and watched as he made his way to the bar.

      He finally made it and just sort of slumped onto the bar and blubbered. Mike, one of the cops, came up to see if he could help, but Davaidh just ignored him. That, too, was unusual because Davaidh normally had a friendly greeting for everyone in the place at the time and all those who came in afterwards.

      Evenin’, Davaidh, I said. You’re not looking too good. Can I help?

      At first, he just shook his head, then said I could get him a whisky. That wasn’t going to happen and he knew it. I will not feed a customer’s demons by serving them any more alcohol once they’ve had enough, and Davaidh had apparently had his share and a couple other people’s as well. There’d be no more booze for Davaidh tonight, not in the Door.

      He finally looked up at me and took a long sniff, sucking all those tears of his back into his head. He looked like he’d just lost his best friend. Turned out he almost had.

      Chris, he said, I don’t know what to do, man. How’m I gonna live? Ohhhhh, man!

      I noticed that the Door was suddenly quieter than a church. People had even stopped drinking and seemingly even breathing. Everyone was watching and listening to Davaidh, worry and concern written all over their faces. Even Oly had quit right in the middle of one of his war stories—he was a Paramedic with the county and had seen a lot in his 25 years of being one.

      I reached across the foot-and-a-half of bar and put my hand on Davaidh’s shoulder, squeezing gently just to let him know he wasn’t alone.

      How are you going to live with what, Davaidh? I said, just loud enough for him to hear, or so I thought. Turns out that the place was so quiet, everyone could hear our conversation, not that it really mattered. We’d all know about it soon enough—that’s the way families are, y’know?

      He hiccupped, then sighed.

      Chris, I’ve had too mush to drink. I’m a bit drunk. I’m shorry aboot that. What am I gonna’ DO??? His voice rose in anguish with that question, then he began to cry once more.

      Several people got up and walked up to him. Cops, airmen, it didn’t matter. Oly came up and put his hand on Davaidh’s shoulders and bent down to take a look at him.

      Davaidh, it’s Oly. What’s wrong, man? Are you sick or something? Oly asked in that official Paramedic voice of his. The one that said to everybody there, I’m in charge, folks. Stand back and let me work.

      "No,

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1