It’s that time again, friends! What time? Time to post another chapter from my novel, Impossible Monsters, of course! Por que? Por que no!?
Okay, all silliness aside, this chapter again focuses on one of the central characters, Richard, as he goes to meet with one of his professors, Bernard Nesbitt, to talk about his future (or lack thereof) in academia. I quite like Bernard, and almost wish he showed up in the book more than once, but I think this chapter does a fine job in showcasing his rather strong personality, and I think if he were to show up again, it might be too much.
And, if you like what you read, check out my book of short stories available for purchase on Lulu right here.
Enjoy.
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RICHARD
Wednesday, about eleven-thirty in the morning, gray sky peppered with grayer clouds, drips of rain that came in hurried storms always at points when I had just dried off, the bus running five minutes late, and I’m wearing a white oxford shirt with a blue veeneck sweater over it and my black wool coat—even though it’s not that cold out—and some skinny jeans and these new loafer-type shoes I bought from a clothing store called Hartevelt’s, some Dutch superchain that caters to the casually chic—they cost me about £40, not too bad—and I’m sitting in Bernard Nesbitt’s office, watching his bulbous frame fumble a small electric water boiler on top of a small mosaic table decorated with long-leafed ivies that twirl down to the floor. The room is lined with bookshelves, like actually lined, and where there is no longer room on the actual shelves he’s managed to place more books atop the old ones, lying them flat and stacking them tall, also placing the largest of his tomes on the very top of the oak-looking bookcases looking like they could teeter and fall off and kill a man at any moment, and I’m seated right below such a book and can just make out the scraped lettering on the scraped binding that reads Mind-Mapping for Creativity. I realize at this moment, even though I’ve only been in this country for less than three months, that everything here is done over tea or coffee, usually tea, and it’s funny but sad, kinda. The moment I walked in the office, even though it’s November and still not that cold, Bernard complained about the freeze as he called it, and like clockwork asked me if I’d like some tea because he was going to put some on. I replied yes then wondered if Englishmen only drink tea when someone else is around, it doesn’t seem like a solitary drink because you’re always being told “I was just about to put some tea on” when you walk into a room but you never actually see cups of half-finished tea in their hands…weird. He’s humming a tune now and the organized list of bullet points I had memorized and was going to race through with him is leaving me quickly all because of this…stupid tea. He turns, finally, placing a small cup of steaming gray water in front of me at the edge of his overworked and paper-soaked desk, retreating back to his comfy chair across from me, the weight of his swollen body causing the thing to groan. He takes a sip without even testing its hotness. The porcelain cup is decorated with red lines that make a nonsense pattern and it’s hot in my hand as I try to sip. The large window behind Bernard’s desk has no blinds and overlooks a courtyard between two of the buildings, I think the library and Fenn Hall, where I don’t have any classes. He sips again. He’s wearing a blazer the color of peanut butter, some gray slacks and a white oxford like me. He’s notably bald.
