Gobbledygook

Are you going crazy or has your wife really been replaced by an alien?

Gobbledygook

by Sam Stafford

 

It’s a Friday night. Even if you’d been under a rock for a month you’d know it was a Friday night because there’s a soupy, hot, malaise to the air. You got home from work at five-thirty, and Charlotte arrives home at closer to seven, despite only that morning saying she’d be home no later than six-thirty. You smell her perfume before you see her and when you meet her at the doorway her lips have the dull, fatty smell of fresh lipstick. Kissing softly, her hand slides across your body and over your thigh like a blind serpent. As it reaches your zipper you pull away from her - lips sticking like bodies on a humid day - and you’re as confused as she looks. That confusion turns to hurt, and her heavy eyes - already glassy from a small drink after work, maybe - blink back tears. You know it. She knows it. Some contract has been breached. You just don’t turn down an offer like that. Not from your wife anyway. Not on a Friday evening. Not if it’s the first time she’s tried that one for months.

     After a moment of shared, distant silence you say, “I’ve put some macaroni cheese in the oven for dinner,” as you stroke her upper arm and refuse to meet her eyes. Her arm is freckled and cold and unreal like a mannequins’. “You like macaroni.”

     Her lips quiver and for a moment you think she’s about to cry. Or worse say that she never liked macaroni and she’s been lying all these years. But she doesn’t. She smiles thinly and says, “Thanks, hun.”

     You kneel down to check the shop-bought macaroni through the half-black glass window. It’s bubbling but the cheese on top hasn’t turned crispy yet; the way Charlotte likes it. You turn the oven up to 200 degrees. A wine cork pops in the living room and the contents of a bottle glugs pleasantly into a glass. You smile. That’s bound to cheer her up. Chill her out a little.

     “Five minutes for tea,” you shout through the adjoining door. “Do you wanna get something on the telly for us?”

     There’s no reply but you hear her fiddling with the remote and take that as message received. Mentally, you guess what she’s going to choose and make a bet with yourself.

     You plate up the macaroni - at least, you transfer the unappetising green-brown plastic trays onto plates - grab a fork for yourself and a spoon for her and stuff a wine glass and a tube of salt under your arm.

     Your living room is strikingly bright, all grey and professional and clean, but small. Charlotte looks up and smiles but her eyes have turned red. Must’ve been embarrassing for her. But then again, how many times has she pushed away your wandering hands. Often, that’s how many. Your eyes narrow into a scowl but you correct yourself and smile back, mirroring her. You switch off the main light and turn on a lamp. Charlotte is a silhouette surrounded by gloom.

     “What’ve you put on?” you ask.

     “Thingamajig… One Foot in the Grave.”

     You never would have been a betting man. Maybe you don’t know her so well after all. “Not Only Fools, no?”

     “Nah. Tired of it.”

     That’s strange. Of all the oldies it’s her favourite. A sense of something being off creeps coldly up your chest. Watching old comedies is your thing, the first thing you talked about at Judy’s party. Even if Judy, like any good older sister, warned you not to speak to any of her friends on pain of a kick to the gonads. Ah, well, you couldn’t help yourself when you saw Charlotte. And you did more than just talk to her, you let her deflower you. At fifteen.

Really? Deflower… did you just say deflower? I mean that’s just-

"Everything okay?” you ask, interrupting your own thoughts.

     The same thin smile. “Mmhmm.” She turns her attention to the television and presses play. “Thanks for tea.”

     That’s the girl that deflowered you. Deflowered, Jesus.

     “It’s only shop-bought.”

     “No, it’s perfect. Sometimes I like this pretend stuff better than the posh stuff.”

     You grin. “It’s an im-pasta.”

     She looks at you. In a vague sense you hear Victor Meldrew say I don’t believe it. But it’s all eyes on her. She’s looking at you differently. Disparagingly. Hungrily. Again you get the urge to pull away from her but the sofa is only so big.

     “What did you say?”

     Your heart is beating pretty quick now. You stammer when you say, “Im-paster. Li… li… like imposter. Coz you said it was pretend pasta.”

      Her eyes don’t move. Don’t blink. They widen and bulge a bit. Her lips move into a rubbery smile at the corners. “Oh right,” your wife’s voice comes from between her parted lips.

     “You said you were going to be home by six-thirty.”

Why’d you say that?

     “What?”

     “Six-thirty. You said you’d be home by then.”

     “I was home by seven…”

Your lips go rubbery now too. A half smile creeps onto your lips, parted in surprise. Don’t f*****g say it. “Are you f*****g someone else or something, Char?”

F**k.

     Her expression and body slump as one. She raises her eyebrows and shakes her head. Calmly, she places the plate of pasta on the coffee table and stands. You wonder how you’d react if she said something similar to you. Not so calmly is your guess.

Charlotte stops. Turns to you. Opens her lips as if to speak but then stops. Sighs. Leaves the room. The stairs creek as she pulls herself up to bed.

You sit with a perplexed grimace plastered over your face. Something about that reaction seemed a bit scripted, don’t you think?

Anyway, where did that come from? Do you really think Char is putting it about? No. Surely not. Definitely not. If there is a type, and you’re not sure there is, she’s not it.

You laugh. A nervous one.

No, that’s not it. Not at all. You don’t even remember worrying about that; not consciously, anyway. And as you sit there you’re still not thinking about that. You’re thinking - and telling yourself you’re mad while you descend into such thoughts - that that woman upstairs is not your wife. She’s a head on a spring. Not real. Not your wife anyway. You look upwards. Something about the way she was looking at you. Again, you think… hungrily. She was looking at you hungrily.  

#

On Monday morning, after a pleasant if slightly awkward weekend together, Charlotte is pink skinned and naked apart from a towel around her hair. She’s standing in front of the mirror grabbing bits of flesh, turning sideways, pushing her belly out, and rocking on her hips. Harsh, yellow light illuminates her from above. The whole thing, although you’d never tell her this, makes her look alien, like an alien, with her loose skin, little pot belly, and the long, sloping forehead created by the towel.

After you moved in together her naked body became less and less explicitly sexual and is now just the vehicle the person you love moves about in. And that vehicle s***s, pisses, wobbles, and creases. It is at once separate to her and everything you know about her. Sure, you notice when she puts on weight, loses weight, bruises herself, and gets a few new hairs around her n*****s, but it doesn’t much matter. Never has. But, as you look at her naked body now, you realise that her triangle of pubic hair has never lost its allure. Maybe because it conceals the thing you really want to get at. Or maybe there is nostalgia to it all - thick dark bush might have been out of style when you were at school but there’s still a childlike discovery to it all. Whatever it is, her bush hasn’t faded into normality; not when it glistens, as it does now, with shower water. That’s why you call it ‘the black hole’. It drags you in if you get too close. And so, mechanically, you force yourself to look away. Not that Charlotte seems to notice. She’s moving about too quick to pay any attention to you and your sleep crusted eyes.

She double takes as she checks the time on the alarm clock. Eyebrows raised, she lifts the clock and inspects it. Listens. Tip-taps on the clock face. She shakes it and her breasts jiggle. It’s not working, she says.

     Then she checks the electronic clock on her mobile phone “F**k,” she moans. “It must’ve only stopped an hour ago. I’m an hour bloody late. And so are you.” She sits on the edge of the bed and puts a bra on backwards, swivels it around to the front, and caps them off. Bye, bye, you think, won’t be seeing you guys ‘til tonight. “Are you listening to me or just staring at my tits? Come on, I can drop you off at work on my way. Saves you getting the train.”

     You recline. “Oh, I’m not going.”

     “No?”

You know she hasn’t really heard so you try again a little more forcefully. “No work for this guy today.”

     Now she takes notice. “What… you’ve taken holidays? Why didn’t you tell-”

     “I’ve not taken holidays.” You let your expression roll over. “Well I suppose, in a sense…”
     “So you’re working from home?”

     “Nah.”

     “Ill?”

     “Fit as a flea.”

     “Jesus. What then?”

     You smirk. “Oh, I just don’t want to go in.”

     She looks at you as if you’ve said you plan to do some noncing while she’s at work. It doesn’t break her stride though; she’s fully dressed and pushing a purple-jewelled earring through her right lobe. “Stop being…” Frustration froths from her mouth as she searches for the right word and she makes a growling kind of noise. “Come on, get ready. I’m serious.”

     “Me too. I’m not going. I don’t want to go.”

     Something about the tone in your voice, a certainty, stops her as she steps into the purple high heels that match the earrings. “What… what are you even saying right now? Have you been sacked or something?”

     “Those earrings really set off the whole outfit, Char.”

     “It’s not funny. Have you lost your job?”

“Why would that be your first assumption?”

     Charlotte purses her lips. “Look… I’ve gotta go. If you’re still going through… whatever this is… when I get home we can talk about it then.” Anger is rising in her voice. “Have a shower, get dressed, stop acting like a little kid… and just go to work. One day. That’s all it is. One day. But I can’t… right now. I’ll see you later on.”

     You sit waiting for each harbinger of solitude to come. The clomping downstairs. Grunts and swears as she searches for her house or car keys. The creaking, yawning door. Slam. The handle yanked up. Grannkkk! An engine’s burst of life. Soft mechanical whirring as she reverses down the driveway. Crunching gravel. And then, once she’s gone, birdsong.

     Rolling over in bed, you push the covers off your legs and reach for the alarm clock. You take it downstairs with you and just to prove you haven’t completely lost it - that you still have some self-control - you place it on the kitchen counter while you pour yourself a coffee. As you pour it down your throat, you’re happy to realise that the clock has retreated from your mind - although you are thinking of time. That old clock, any old clock, clicking over to nine (must be nearly there already) and your desk empty, computer screen a dark mirror, colleagues moaning that you’re late in and they need to ask you about some boring and unnecessary something or other. And even if the clock began to spin, turning days into seconds, and your colleagues aged - even Megan the sixteen-year-old temp - retired and are replaced, nothing changes. One old gent even keels over from a heart attack right on the office floor. After a week his desk is cleaned out. After two weeks (seconds in your mind) someone new sits down and ages too. The seasons change. Christmas comes, Easter, hot summers, orange autumns. Death pervades the office. Your desk sits cobwebbed, unchanged and unreplaced, not because you’re irreplaceable, no, but because you are unnecessary.

You take a sip of coffee.

     Now you turn your attention to the alarm clock. You turn it over and pass it between your soft fingers. That right there is what you were looking for. Did she really think you wouldn’t notice? An image flashes behind your eyes; Charlotte in a room full of people, or things that look like people, watching a video of your day, commenting on it, laughing sometimes, all taken from the recording eye in the alarm clock.

     If you were really mad you would no doubt smash the alarm clock off the corner of the breakfast bar. But you find a screwdriver in a bottom draw and carefully take out the screws, remove the back, and then gently pull out the mechanism, until you’re left with the plastic clock face. Below the clock face is a bit of plastic you might find covering a light fixture. Very clever. Hidden in plain sight. This camera is attached to a couple of wires that run separately to the wires to the battery. Added long after the manufacture of the clock. An idiot could see that, so crude was the installation. Laughing, because you know exactly how this looks, you take a penknife and cut the two wires to the camera. Tonight you’ll know if Charlotte’s behind it all. Simply by the way she behaves.

You’re pretty sure it’s her anyway. No one else has the access. Or the motivation, you guess. Although, then again, you shouldn’t blame Charlotte. This woman isn’t actually Charlotte after all. Should you even call her a woman? No. Not really. You’re not entirely sure what she is but you’re certain it’s not Charlotte. Yes, yes, you know how it sounds. Next you’ll be taping up the sockets so the walls can’t talk to you. Wearing a tinfoil hat so they can’t beam the messages straight into your noggin. Something about these thoughts comforts you. You can still identify mad. And while you know it’s not strictly true that if you’re worried you might be mad you aren’t (there are after all some pretty neurotic nutters), you know it reduces the chances.

     But you know how it looks. Yes, you do. Taking apart the alarm clock is another step down lunatic lane. These thoughts you’ve been having. The paranoia. But sometimes sanity can look crazy on lunatic lane. Besides, unlike most people with a screw loose, you have proof. You have cause to think these things. It’s littered across the pages of her purple-covered diary in the bedside table. Entry after entry for the past few months. All written in a steady hand and an alien language.

#

     You sit on the bed leafing through the diary. At first the entries are almost comically mundane. Things like ‘we went to the shop to buy broccoli,’ and ‘might dye hair blonde. On second thoughts, no.’ But then about four weeks ago (she doesn’t date every entry), her usually sloppy handwriting changes to a writing that you can only describe as staccato. Sharp and detached. All written in a language you’ve never seen before. One single line entry reads:

 

I/’’^[[ ‘/~¬` .}. /)(¬`~…

 

Gobbledygook in other words. Gibberish.

You run your finger across the smooth paper just below the line. It makes you feel close to her. As if you were behind her when she wrote it. Did her eyes roll back or her second eyelids blink after she wrote it? Did her face twitch back and forth between Charlotte and this other being with knowledge far beyond yours? You wonder, is there any of Charlotte left, or is this thing, this horrendous imposter, just a brilliant actor. You don’t know. But you will.

#

It’s about two-thirty when the door goes. Too early for Charlotte. Unless… unless she was ordered home when the camera went out. Possibly. Possibly not. It is Charlotte. She calls up to you, her voice filled with concern. When you don’t answer she tries again; concern increasing to worry. Soon it’ll be panic. Ever so carefully you open the drawer and place her diary back where it belongs.

“Up here,” you call back. Even at this distance you hear her sigh of relief. Well, you probably sense it more than you hear it. What did she expect? You hanging from the beams up in the attic?

It’s a little while until she climbs the stairs and enters the bedroom.

     “I got a call from your work. They said you didn’t turn up.”

     “Snitches.”

     You smile.

She doesn’t.

Her jaw is locked tight. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? I could’ve caused an accident I rushed home so quick.”

“Sorry.”

She’s incredulous. “Sorry? Is that… is that it? Sorry? That’s all you have to say to me?”

“Very sorry.”

You shrug and a smile forms on your lips. It’s so genuine, so jovial, that Charlotte’s expression cracks and she begins to laugh. Relief more than anything. She sits beside you and tears stream down her face as she hiccups with more laughter. When she returns to more serious matters it’s with a conciliatory, placating tone. “Okay, what’s up?”

“I can’t do it anymore. Rotting in that office. Look at the weather today. Beautiful. And what am I meant to do? Go sit at a computer until someone says I can go?”

“Okay, so you don’t like your job. Join the club. But this is no way to leave. If you go for something else you’ll need references, letters of recommendation-”

“You don’t get it. None of it matters. None of it’s real. It’s just bricks and people and whatever...”

She sighs. “Bob has always been very understanding. Why not ring him and explain that you had a little wobble and-”

“Bob is a head on a spring too. You don’t get it. It’s all just… nobody can make me do a thing, you know. I don’t have to go to work. Why should I? F**k ‘em. I don’t need to pay the mortgage. F**k Halifax. I don’t need to mow the grass… guess what? Grass grows, things eat it, and then it dies. F**k it. Say you understand me, Char? None of it’s real life. It’s all just… OUT THERE. And we… we’re just IN HERE. Yeah?”

She’s inscrutable. Any person would surely head straight for the door after that. Not Char. Or whatever Char is now. Her cold hand touches your lap. “I understand. I do. It’s erm… tough. And your work feels pointless, is that what you mean?”

“Yeah. And everyone’s a head on a spring.”

“That’s where you lose me, hun. That just doesn’t make any sense.”

“I mean… I mean they’re not real. Well they are… but they’re playing a role. It’s inauthentic. I’m a fraud too. I’m an ape in a suit.”

Charlotte giggles. That does sound like her. “Well… I didn’t want to say it but you look like one most days.”

You don’t smile.

Charlotte continues, “Look, I love your honesty. And you know what… if you’re not happy we’ll work something out. We’ve got savings. You can take some time off.”

You’re surprised. No. Shocked. This isn’t the Charlotte you know.

“You’re supporting this?”

Charlotte scoffs. “No. But you’re right. No one can force you to do anything. Not Bob. Not Halifax. Not even me.”

#

There is a reason you call it ‘the black hole’ remember.

She was flaunting it and you thought, ‘what’s the harm?’.

Big mistake buddy. That’s how it gets you. All bad decisions start with a shrug and a flippant ‘what’s the harm?’

And now you’re on top of her grunting between her soft moans. And sure, she feels like Charlotte, but you know exactly what you’re doing. You’re cheating on your wife of eleven years. Don’t get it wrong. That’s exactly what you’re doing. You know it’s not Charlotte and yet you’re screwing her silly anyway. It was the least you could do, you argue. Give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, she supported you when you needed her most. Exactly and, you know, aren’t we all one anyway? In which case, a rose by any other name… and maybe the scent had remained even though the rose had changed. Maybe this thing both is and isn’t Charlotte.

Whatever it is, it does a bloody good impression. Her eyelids open and instead of pleasure you see the whirring cogs of thought. Nothing unusual actually. It had worried you at first, when you first started boning (as you called it then) Charlotte. Her silence and slow drift into thought made you feel inadequate. Weren’t women meant to be senseless during the act? Not conscious. But she saw sex as an almost meditative act. A slate wiping exercise where only the most important thoughts could stay. Either that, or you are just plain bad at this, and she’s an inventive liar. Who knows? Maybe both. Anyway, her eyes open - although only a slight glint in those dark orbs tell you this - and you can tell that your effort is now secondary to whatever has come to mind.

“Why don’t you go back to school?” Her voice is strange. Sort of husky.

“Sorry?” you say, trying against all likelihood to retain a rhythm and an erection.

“Okay, you don’t want to work… no don’t stop, it feels nice… so don’t work. Go back to school. Do some of those entrance courses and find out what you’re passionate about.”

What is that voice she’s speaking with? You recognise it but it’s not hers. She’s glitching, you think sombrely.

“Sure, sure. I’ll look into it.”

“Sorry, I know you hate it when I talk during. I’ll be quiet.”

Seconds pass. Her hands crawl up your back and around your neck.

“But you know… it’s July now and term starts in September normally so… I mean if you are going to look into it… it’ll have to be soon.”

You nod and smile. It’s creeping you out now and you wish she’d stop talking. In the dark - you realise - she could be anyone. A French nun, and what you’re doing is badly, badly wrong. Jesus! Don’t think that. That way lies real madness. Still the thought remains. God knows why. Not a nun, not Charlotte, and no she can’t be anyone in the gloom. You know it. You saw the diary, didn’t you? Alien language. Alien. Don’t go down that cul-de-sac. Keep with Alien. Remain sane.

     “Come on, keep going,” she says.

You’d stopped moving. You start up again but your mind is elsewhere. Good Christ, you recognise that voice. F**k, now it comes to you. It’s Ms. Smart, your Year 12 politics teacher. She’s glitching up really bad. Your stomach flips over.

“Keep going cowboy,” Charlotte says.

Such a good impression. Exactly what she would say. But they got it wrong when they were watching you. When they mined your memories or whatever. They got the voice wrong.

“Maybe,” Charlotte begins, “you could do something with electronics. I saw you fixed the alarm clock today.”

That’s it. F**k. What’s this all about? You recoil from her, propelling yourself backward almost off the end of the bed, stifling a scream of repulsion and disgust.

“What, what?” Charlotte says. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt? I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

You rush to the light switch and stab at it. When the room illuminates you expect to see Ms. Smart in bed pretending to be Charlotte. Looking at you and saying, ‘what’s the matter, hun?”

But it’s Charlotte. Just Charlotte. And she is asking you ‘what’s the matter?’ over and over. She’s terrified.

“You.” Flecks of spittle fly across the gulf between you. “You’re ‘what’s the matter’ with me. Why are you doing this to me? Why are you driving me mad?”

She’s up against the headboard now about as far from you as she can get. “I… I…” she stammers.

“Just tell me what’s going on. What’ve you done with Charlotte? I want Charlotte. Now.”

“Alright, alright, alright.” Her breaths are quick. She crawls the length of the bed towards you. She traverses the duvet as if it’s a mountain. “Listen to me, hun, okay. I am Charlotte, okay. You’re scaring me. You’re not well. I’m going to-”

“You’re going to put me in a loony bin I bet. But I know. I know. I know I’m not mad.” You pace the bedroom and Charlotte’s eyes follow you back and forth like she’s watching a game of tennis. “I know what you are. Wait there.”

You return after about thirty seconds with the alarm clock and thrust it at her chest.

“What’s this then?”

“What’s what?”
     “This.”

She studies it and for a second you think she looks like she wants to see something but can’t. She’s panicked, you can see that. But don’t kids panic when they’re caught in a lie? Her voice is high and strained to the point of breaking when she says, “Oh God, what do you want me to say? It’s… it’s our alarm clock.”

“Very funny. I know it’s our alarm clock. Well mine and Charlotte’s alarm clock actually.” Her eyes bulge at that. “But I’m talking about the thingamajig. The camera under the clock face. Did you put it there? Did someone say I need watching?”

 Eyes wide, expressionless, her head begins to shake. “What?” It’s more of a cry for help than a question.

“The camera. What is its purpose?”

“But hun. It’s not a camera. It’s the light that goes on if you press the top button. Look…” she says and presses the button.

“I cut the wires.”

Her eyes are pleading. “That’s all it is. Now please, you’re scaring me. Put the screwdriver down, please. And we can talk.”

You look down at the screwdriver in your hand. Why’d you taken that up in the first place? Were you planning to open it up for her? But it’s your turn to look confused now. Disgusted, actually. “Do you think…?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh come on.” You set the screwdriver down on top of a chest of drawers beside her make-up and other crap. “Why would I do anything to hurt you?”

“I know you wouldn’t. I know that.”

“I’m not mad. Okay. I’m not. I’ve already decided we’ll probably just have to make do. Ideally, I wouldn’t have even let you know that I know what you’re up to. My bad. But I don’t know why you can’t just come clean…”

She’s growing in confidence. Edging closer to you. Breaths deepening. “There’s nothing to come clean about.”

“Alright.” You laugh and raise your eyebrows. “Sure. Let’s say there isn’t. But you have to know I’d never hurt you. I can’t have you thinking… even if I was totally bonkers… no. Never, ever, ever. I thought about it logically you see… here’s my logic. If you are an alien you’ve come from far away and if you have the power to replace Charlotte then a screwdriver is hardly going to be your undoing. Right, okay. Also, doing anything to you is not only unlikely to bring Charlotte back but I get the feeling that it may well hinder that possibility. And then there’s the possibility that I have gone a little mad, in which case hurting you would be the worst thing ever.”

Charlotte is pale and looks as though she might be sick. It hurts to know you’ve done it to her. You’d never have done it to Char.

“But Charlotte. Honey. It’s not just the alarm clock. Okay. Most of my ‘proof’ if you want to call it that is subjective. Little changes in how you’re acting. Little looks, you know. And if it was just that then maybe I’d think I was going doolally. But it’s not… I saw the writing in your diary.”

Charlotte’s face drops. Her expression is sad and stern. “What did you see?”

Got her.

You can’t help a little smug smile. “You know what I saw.”

“You shouldn’t have looked at my-”

“Alien writing. Gobbledygook. Made no sense to man nor beast.”

Her eyebrows narrow. Suddenly, she understands. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Oh God,” she says sadly and goes to the bedside table. Her hands shake as she picks it up and opens it to the page where the alien language begins. “This, you mean?”

You’re taken aback by how brazen she is. “What do you mean ‘this’? Yes, the crazy hieroglyphs.”

It’s pity in her eyes now. “Look at it.”

You look at it.

 

I/’’^[[ ‘/~¬` .}. /)(¬`~…

 

     She touches your shoulder. “Read it.”

     “I can’t. It’s Alien.”

     Charlotte brushes away tears you didn’t know you were crying.

     “Read it.”

     You scan the words and concentrate all you can. Slowly, and with great effort, the alien language peels away and the familiar curls and flicks of standard English takes form on the page.

You read it.

I’m not sure I love him anymore.

     You meet her eyes and shrug. When you smile it’s the kind that produces tears but you blink them back. “Like I said. Gobbledygook. Char couldn’t write that.” You sigh. “Doesn’t make any sense.”

 

END

 

 

Author's Note

Hello all. I've been away for a little while working on my writing. I would love to hear what you think about this new one, written in the second person present. Happy to receive feedback, on anything you would like to give feedback on. I always try to return the favour.

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

"Hello all. I've been away for a little while working on my writing. "
Wherever you went it was time well spent. I thought this was a masterful short story. I have seen few successful stories written in second, now I have seen one more. By the third paragraph I no longer saw second person as a novelty.
I have no feedback that would profit a revision; I suspect it has been revised a dozen times already. However, I will read it again and see if there is anything that I missed, though I doubt it.
Thank you very much for sharing this and letting me see it before you publish.

[Sam-Stafford]

Hi Delmar
I'm glad you enjoyed my story. I can't tell you how much your comment means. All I want to do is reach people who enjoy what I write.

Your comments on previous stories really helped. I try to write with more focus and write 'boney' stories. So thank you for your honest continued feedback.

I'm in the final throws of a novel, I would love to have you on board as a beta reader when it's done if you're interested. Shoot me a message with your email and I'll send you the manuscript when it's complete.

Once again, thanks so much.

[Delmar Cooper]

delmarcooper@gmail .com will get to me

[ric d]

"..is now just the vehicle the person you love moves about in..."

That line has haunted me all night since reading this!!

Not just the context of the story, but the idea that the person we love is not just the vessel, but the soul.