Status: Re-uploaded 29/09/2012. Paperback $15- http://www.lulu.com/shop/tristrum-rees/the-macabre-tales-of-young-edgar-paperback/paperback/product-20248115.html
The Macabre Tales of Young Edgar
These Aren't My Dreams
'Edgar, I... I haven't seen you for three days!'
The door caved in, revealing two harrowed eyes through a slit. They were quickly followed by the rest of Edgar's disheveled appearance. His face was paler than the moon, and the rings under his eyes were like craters, so that he looked unearthly. His hair was mousy and lank again, and fell over his forehead like straw leaking out of a scarecrow. Likewise, the ruffled lapels of his shirt leaked out of his open jacket, where some of the buttons had come loose.
Lord Edmund got the strong impression that this was a corpse who had just narrowly escaped the grave.
'Wherever have you been?' he exclaimed. 'I've just been reading your latest offering. It was early...'
One of his gloved hands strayed to Edgar's rumpled collar. There, it hovered without daring to brush the fabric. It was as though the Lord feared that Edgar was a nighttime apparition, and touching him would cause him to dissipate. Finally, his fingers plucked up the courage to seize the material and tug it straight.
'There,' he said, pursing his lips in a satisfied way.
'This is important,' said Edgar, stiffly.
'What is, my dear boy?'
'This.'
He withdrew a fistful of paper that had been causing part of the lumpiness inside his jacket, and shoved it towards Lord Edmund. He slumped a little as it he handed the documents over, as if his scarecrow self had been disgorged of its stuffing.
'And... w-what are these?' asked Lord Edmund, stuttering again now that his fantasies had been interrupted.
'I made copies.'
'Well, y-yes. I see, but...?'
'I made copies of everything I wrote and gave to you. I think there's a pattern. I think you know something about it. I know about symbolism, Ed.' Edgar hesitated. He had been about to say, 'my Lord,' but had caught himself just in time. He managed a small smile, which was a nervous twitch on his ashen lips. 'I know about metaphor, and about running themes. These are my tools. As such, they are second nature to me, and I recognise their use by others.'
'And so, what are you, ah, proposing?' asked the Viscount, wringing his hands. His own eyes had grown large, in imitation of Edgar's. The younger and older man stared mutually, each a reflection of the other. As they did, Lord Edmund was painfully aware of how they had significantly they had changed each other over such a short period of time.
'These aren't my dreams,' said Edgar, simply. 'I think you know whose they are.'
The door caved in, revealing two harrowed eyes through a slit. They were quickly followed by the rest of Edgar's disheveled appearance. His face was paler than the moon, and the rings under his eyes were like craters, so that he looked unearthly. His hair was mousy and lank again, and fell over his forehead like straw leaking out of a scarecrow. Likewise, the ruffled lapels of his shirt leaked out of his open jacket, where some of the buttons had come loose.
Lord Edmund got the strong impression that this was a corpse who had just narrowly escaped the grave.
'Wherever have you been?' he exclaimed. 'I've just been reading your latest offering. It was early...'
One of his gloved hands strayed to Edgar's rumpled collar. There, it hovered without daring to brush the fabric. It was as though the Lord feared that Edgar was a nighttime apparition, and touching him would cause him to dissipate. Finally, his fingers plucked up the courage to seize the material and tug it straight.
'There,' he said, pursing his lips in a satisfied way.
'This is important,' said Edgar, stiffly.
'What is, my dear boy?'
'This.'
He withdrew a fistful of paper that had been causing part of the lumpiness inside his jacket, and shoved it towards Lord Edmund. He slumped a little as it he handed the documents over, as if his scarecrow self had been disgorged of its stuffing.
'And... w-what are these?' asked Lord Edmund, stuttering again now that his fantasies had been interrupted.
'I made copies.'
'Well, y-yes. I see, but...?'
'I made copies of everything I wrote and gave to you. I think there's a pattern. I think you know something about it. I know about symbolism, Ed.' Edgar hesitated. He had been about to say, 'my Lord,' but had caught himself just in time. He managed a small smile, which was a nervous twitch on his ashen lips. 'I know about metaphor, and about running themes. These are my tools. As such, they are second nature to me, and I recognise their use by others.'
'And so, what are you, ah, proposing?' asked the Viscount, wringing his hands. His own eyes had grown large, in imitation of Edgar's. The younger and older man stared mutually, each a reflection of the other. As they did, Lord Edmund was painfully aware of how they had significantly they had changed each other over such a short period of time.
'These aren't my dreams,' said Edgar, simply. 'I think you know whose they are.'
