A fearless faith in fiction — Employing a Kantian or Jungian sensibility and an ‘intentional fallacy’ consciousness — Various passions of the reading moment — Walter de la Mare, ELizabeth BOWen, Robert Aickman and many others old and new — Please click my name below for this site’s navigation and my backstory as intermittent photographer, writer, editor, publisher & reviewer.
He was of the servant class; you could see it in his ever-lowered eyes and in his bearing down. Eyes that blinked at every sound, brown pupils in even browner whites. I knew him by his name. He lived around the corner from me. I often saw him hobbling up the street to where the shop was. His bag seemed more empty coming back than it was going. I was told that he once worked at the manor, the now derelict manor, a place on his regular walks. He had been given the title of under butler with most of the shitty jobs to do. And when I say shitty, I mean shitty. He helped the manor clean itself.
I once thought about starting a conversation with him as we crossed paths along Averne Road. You know it, don’t you? At the other end, the manor. And here where its park gates are now always kept shut. Ever since those terrible murders created such a stink hereabouts. It was indeed close to those gates when I began to speak as he lowered his eyes even lower than anyone could possibly look. What was I going to say to him, you ask? Well, it was simply to ask whether he done them. Done those murders. You know, they never found out, did they? The police hauled in several suspects, but never, to my amazement, did they haul him in. How could a single suspect be more suspicious than he turns out to be?
What do you think? How could anyone have missed him; how could anyone have possibly not investigated his whereabouts on the days the murders happened. Surely, his fingernails would at least have told a million stories. Just a few digs with the vanity file down to the quicks, to take samples to compare with victims’ samples. Simple, I say.
He put his hand on his head. He looked up at me, then he looked down again, as he said his prayers. Prayers that he did not understand, but he knew he had to say them. But say them to who? A huge force called God. Why he put his hand there, he must have wondered. The brain in his head turned and turned again as if it were loosening. What was it thinking? The brain seemed in a different place from where his mind seemed to be. Or was it where his soul was? Where his night was? He felt his head vibrate. He felt himself as something separate. He felt himself as something beyond himself. He felt himself looking down upon himself. A huge force called God. Brain, mind and soul. The Holy Trinity that is you.
What you staring at? This isn’t Averne Road. Well, I’m completely off my way if this isn’t Averne Road. Averne Road is a straight road, without a single bend. And there’s the culvert. There’s the ditch under the hedge. There’s the park gates, shut as they’re ever shut. And there’s the runnel where it all goes along like without a top to it to keep it from going over. And there he is, his eyes so filmed over I wonder if he can see at all, even beyond the lower lids. Take him in, I say, he needs to find a place to undo his doings.
Averne Road is not what it was, not what it once seemed. The name sounds more foreign than English. Words sound different sometimes, between one blink and the next. The manor was just the way things were done. We all have our manors, even you. We all have our ways of doing things. Bad or good, our manors will have to do. Reach up and haul down God. A huge force called God. Murders pushing out murders in a sudden rush of solid rain upon you. Pushing you ever lower. Serves us right, serves us wrong. Averne Road, ah yes, that’s where we be. The bag even emptier when coming back, emptier, as I said, than when he went, or because he went at all. Each time to wipe out those murders. The soul’s night, the night soul, too.
The Des Lewis Gestalt Real-Time Reviews of Books 
THE MURDERS
He was of the servant class; you could see it in his ever-lowered eyes and in his bearing down. Eyes that blinked at every sound, brown pupils in even browner whites. I knew him by his name. He lived around the corner from me. I often saw him hobbling up the street to where the shop was. His bag seemed more empty coming back than it was going. I was told that he once worked at the manor, the now derelict manor, a place on his regular walks. He had been given the title of under butler with most of the shitty jobs to do. And when I say shitty, I mean shitty. He helped the manor clean itself.
I once thought about starting a conversation with him as we crossed paths along Averne Road. You know it, don’t you? At the other end, the manor. And here where its park gates are now always kept shut. Ever since those terrible murders created such a stink hereabouts. It was indeed close to those gates when I began to speak as he lowered his eyes even lower than anyone could possibly look. What was I going to say to him, you ask? Well, it was simply to ask whether he done them. Done those murders. You know, they never found out, did they? The police hauled in several suspects, but never, to my amazement, did they haul him in. How could a single suspect be more suspicious than he turns out to be?
What do you think? How could anyone have missed him; how could anyone have possibly not investigated his whereabouts on the days the murders happened. Surely, his fingernails would at least have told a million stories. Just a few digs with the vanity file down to the quicks, to take samples to compare with victims’ samples. Simple, I say.
He put his hand on his head. He looked up at me, then he looked down again, as he said his prayers. Prayers that he did not understand, but he knew he had to say them. But say them to who? A huge force called God. Why he put his hand there, he must have wondered. The brain in his head turned and turned again as if it were loosening. What was it thinking? The brain seemed in a different place from where his mind seemed to be. Or was it where his soul was? Where his night was? He felt his head vibrate. He felt himself as something separate. He felt himself as something beyond himself. He felt himself looking down upon himself. A huge force called God. Brain, mind and soul. The Holy Trinity that is you.
What you staring at? This isn’t Averne Road. Well, I’m completely off my way if this isn’t Averne Road. Averne Road is a straight road, without a single bend. And there’s the culvert. There’s the ditch under the hedge. There’s the park gates, shut as they’re ever shut. And there’s the runnel where it all goes along like without a top to it to keep it from going over. And there he is, his eyes so filmed over I wonder if he can see at all, even beyond the lower lids. Take him in, I say, he needs to find a place to undo his doings.
Averne Road is not what it was, not what it once seemed. The name sounds more foreign than English. Words sound different sometimes, between one blink and the next. The manor was just the way things were done. We all have our manors, even you. We all have our ways of doing things. Bad or good, our manors will have to do. Reach up and haul down God. A huge force called God. Murders pushing out murders in a sudden rush of solid rain upon you. Pushing you ever lower. Serves us right, serves us wrong. Averne Road, ah yes, that’s where we be. The bag even emptier when coming back, emptier, as I said, than when he went, or because he went at all. Each time to wipe out those murders. The soul’s night, the night soul, too.