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“Life is bleak.”
“Disprove me. Go on.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“That’s because I am right – life is bleak.”
“No question about it.”
“None at all.”
“But if you’re listening to this then you must found an incentive to go on.”
“To continue through the bleakness.”
“I like to call it a fuel.”
“My fuel.”
The old man stirred in his old oak chair, his bones creaking in time with the wood. He stared vacantly at the empty room, his face glowed an interesting shade of orange in the firelight. The man set a large glass down on a circular table next to the chair and wiped the brandy from his whiskers before waiting patiently for his audience to listen once more.
“I didn’t discover my fuel until I was an old man” he said in a regretful tone
“If only I’d discovered it sooner, I could have done so much more. But instead I wasted my youth, my marriage, my job” he paused to clear the lump forming in his throat, quickly remedied by a swig of brandy.
“I spent my childhood playing stickball before choosing to be a man and going down the pits, as my father did. It wasn’t much of a career but it sufficed at the time – everyone did it and I wasn’t extraordinary, not then at least. Thirty seven years in a dank pit does things to a person that change them for the rest of their life. The damp rotting air that corroded my lungs, the backbreaking, knee-scraping shuffling, but most of all the darkness. Oh the darkness. Shrouding around me like a nightmarish sheet with nothing but my headlamp to ward it away. Countless times I heard the whispers of lost miners in the darkness. Many times when my headlamp clicked off I would feel a strong arm brush past me – despite knowing I was alone.”
A throaty cough ripped through the old mans body sending a mist of sooty saliva into the warm air.
“I should have known then, that I could communicate – but all I thought about was coal. Far too dedicated to my work I was – never took the time to think about myself. I spent my life in three states of mind – thinking about coal, drunk and asleep. When your life is like that you don’t take the time to ponder perhaps you have a hidden talent or otherworldly skill”
The old man cleared his throat again and shuffled in his seat, staring into the empty room at his devoted audience.
“It wasn’t until I retired from the pits and my sweet Lydia passed on that I began to listen to the voices. The same voices I heard down the pits, the voices of miners who had lost their lives down the pit, only I heard them in my house. The voices that use to scare me became comforting to me – they’d tell me not to be scared, that I had a reason to live – that I was special.”
The old man patted his chest and he coughed furiously once again.
“The voices, the whispers on the wind as I liked to call them, told me never to tell other people about them – they were special to me. After all those years in solitude down the pits I was glad to have some people to keep me company – even if I couldn’t see them. It didn’t matter much to me.”
“As the years have passed I’ve grown to know the voices by name – they tell me about their lives, their hopes and dreams, but most of all they tell me about their deaths. In huge amounts of detail they whisper to me about how tonnes of coal collapsed on them, pinning them to the floor, slowly collapsing their lungs and stopping them from screaming for help. How they laid there for hours and days in the pitch black that robbed them of their sanity before death shrouded over their body and took their souls – leaving nothing more than their whispers on the wind.”
“Sometimes I just wish they’d stop talking to me!” cried the old man jokingly. His tentative audience laughed silently.
“Hush, hush” he said, “let me continue”
He paused briefly, waiting for the silent room to quieten down
“The whispers, they keep me busy. Sometimes they’ll spark up an interesting discussion, other times they will ask me to carry out Earthly duties for them. I’ve done it all – delivered birthday presents to orphaned children, brought love letters from beyond the grave to weeping widows and laid flowers on the fresh graves of lost relatives. If I didn’t have the whispers I think I’d have given up long ago. Boredom kills people, you know. The whispers, they’re my fuel – my reason for going on in this bleak, bleak world”
The old man took a final sip of his brandy and stood up from the old oak chair, his legs creaking as he did so. He shuffled along the floor towards a large open door and clasped the brass handle.
“Good night now” he said to the empty room “try not to keep me awake with your chattering”.
“Disprove me. Go on.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“That’s because I am right – life is bleak.”
“No question about it.”
“None at all.”
“But if you’re listening to this then you must found an incentive to go on.”
“To continue through the bleakness.”
“I like to call it a fuel.”
“My fuel.”
The old man stirred in his old oak chair, his bones creaking in time with the wood. He stared vacantly at the empty room, his face glowed an interesting shade of orange in the firelight. The man set a large glass down on a circular table next to the chair and wiped the brandy from his whiskers before waiting patiently for his audience to listen once more.
“I didn’t discover my fuel until I was an old man” he said in a regretful tone
“If only I’d discovered it sooner, I could have done so much more. But instead I wasted my youth, my marriage, my job” he paused to clear the lump forming in his throat, quickly remedied by a swig of brandy.
“I spent my childhood playing stickball before choosing to be a man and going down the pits, as my father did. It wasn’t much of a career but it sufficed at the time – everyone did it and I wasn’t extraordinary, not then at least. Thirty seven years in a dank pit does things to a person that change them for the rest of their life. The damp rotting air that corroded my lungs, the backbreaking, knee-scraping shuffling, but most of all the darkness. Oh the darkness. Shrouding around me like a nightmarish sheet with nothing but my headlamp to ward it away. Countless times I heard the whispers of lost miners in the darkness. Many times when my headlamp clicked off I would feel a strong arm brush past me – despite knowing I was alone.”
A throaty cough ripped through the old mans body sending a mist of sooty saliva into the warm air.
“I should have known then, that I could communicate – but all I thought about was coal. Far too dedicated to my work I was – never took the time to think about myself. I spent my life in three states of mind – thinking about coal, drunk and asleep. When your life is like that you don’t take the time to ponder perhaps you have a hidden talent or otherworldly skill”
The old man cleared his throat again and shuffled in his seat, staring into the empty room at his devoted audience.
“It wasn’t until I retired from the pits and my sweet Lydia passed on that I began to listen to the voices. The same voices I heard down the pits, the voices of miners who had lost their lives down the pit, only I heard them in my house. The voices that use to scare me became comforting to me – they’d tell me not to be scared, that I had a reason to live – that I was special.”
The old man patted his chest and he coughed furiously once again.
“The voices, the whispers on the wind as I liked to call them, told me never to tell other people about them – they were special to me. After all those years in solitude down the pits I was glad to have some people to keep me company – even if I couldn’t see them. It didn’t matter much to me.”
“As the years have passed I’ve grown to know the voices by name – they tell me about their lives, their hopes and dreams, but most of all they tell me about their deaths. In huge amounts of detail they whisper to me about how tonnes of coal collapsed on them, pinning them to the floor, slowly collapsing their lungs and stopping them from screaming for help. How they laid there for hours and days in the pitch black that robbed them of their sanity before death shrouded over their body and took their souls – leaving nothing more than their whispers on the wind.”
“Sometimes I just wish they’d stop talking to me!” cried the old man jokingly. His tentative audience laughed silently.
“Hush, hush” he said, “let me continue”
He paused briefly, waiting for the silent room to quieten down
“The whispers, they keep me busy. Sometimes they’ll spark up an interesting discussion, other times they will ask me to carry out Earthly duties for them. I’ve done it all – delivered birthday presents to orphaned children, brought love letters from beyond the grave to weeping widows and laid flowers on the fresh graves of lost relatives. If I didn’t have the whispers I think I’d have given up long ago. Boredom kills people, you know. The whispers, they’re my fuel – my reason for going on in this bleak, bleak world”
The old man took a final sip of his brandy and stood up from the old oak chair, his legs creaking as he did so. He shuffled along the floor towards a large open door and clasped the brass handle.
“Good night now” he said to the empty room “try not to keep me awake with your chattering”.
Page:
Not bad, not bad at all
“Life is bleak.”
“Disprove me. Go on.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“That’s because I am right – life is bleak.”
“No question about it.”
“None at all.”
“But if you’re listening to this then you must found an incentive to go on.”
“To continue through the bleakness.”
“I like to call it a fuel.”
“My fuel.”
The old man stirred in his old oak chair, his bones creaking in time with the wood. He stared vacantly at the empty room, his face glowed an interesting shade of orange in the firelight. The man set a large glass down on a circular table next to the chair and wiped the brandy from his whiskers before waiting patiently for his audience to listen once more.
“I didn’t discover my fuel until I was an old man” he said in a regretful tone
“If only I’d discovered it sooner, I could have done so much more. But instead I wasted my youth, my marriage, my job” he paused to clear the lump forming in his throat, quickly remedied by a swig of brandy.
“I spent my childhood playing stickball before choosing to be a man and going down the pits, as my father did. It wasn’t much of a career but it sufficed at the time – everyone did it and I wasn’t extraordinary, not then at least. Thirty seven years in a dank pit does things to a person that change them for the rest of their life. The damp rotting air that corroded my lungs, the backbreaking, knee-scraping shuffling, but most of all the darkness. Oh the darkness. Shrouding around me like a nightmarish sheet with nothing but my headlamp to ward it away. Countless times I heard the whispers of lost miners in the darkness. Many times when my headlamp clicked off I would feel a strong arm brush past me – despite knowing I was alone.”
A throaty cough ripped through the old mans body sending a mist of sooty saliva into the warm air.
“I should have known then, that I could communicate – but all I thought about was coal. Far too dedicated to my work I was – never took the time to think about myself. I spent my life in three states of mind – thinking about coal, drunk and asleep. When your life is like that you don’t take the time to ponder perhaps you have a hidden talent or otherworldly skill”
The old man cleared his throat again and shuffled in his seat, staring into the empty room at his devoted audience.
“It wasn’t until I retired from the pits and my sweet Lydia passed on that I began to listen to the voices. The same voices I heard down the pits, the voices of miners who had lost their lives down the pit, only I heard them in my house. The voices that use to scare me became comforting to me – they’d tell me not to be scared, that I had a reason to live – that I was special.”
The old man patted his chest and he coughed furiously once again.
“The voices, the whispers on the wind as I liked to call them, told me never to tell other people about them – they were special to me. After all those years in solitude down the pits I was glad to have some people to keep me company – even if I couldn’t see them. It didn’t matter much to me.”
“As the years have passed I’ve grown to know the voices by name – they tell me about their lives, their hopes and dreams, but most of all they tell me about their deaths. In huge amounts of detail they whisper to me about how tonnes of coal collapsed on them, pinning them to the floor, slowly collapsing their lungs and stopping them from screaming for help. How they laid there for hours and days in the pitch black that robbed them of their sanity before death shrouded over their body and took their souls – leaving nothing more than their whispers on the wind.”
“Sometimes I just wish they’d stop talking to me!” cried the old man jokingly. His tentative audience laughed silently.
“Hush, hush” he said, “let me continue”
He paused briefly, waiting for the silent room to quieten down
“The whispers, they keep me busy. Sometimes they’ll spark up an interesting discussion, other times they will ask me to carry out Earthly duties for them. I’ve done it all – delivered birthday presents to orphaned children, brought love letters from beyond the grave to weeping widows and laid flowers on the fresh graves of lost relatives. If I didn’t have the whispers I think I’d have given up long ago. Boredom kills people, you know. The whispers, they’re my fuel – my reason for going on in this bleak, bleak world”
The old man took a final sip of his brandy and stood up from the old oak chair, his legs creaking as he did so. He shuffled along the floor towards a large open door and clasped the brass handle.
“Good night now” he said to the empty room “try not to keep me awake with your chattering”.
“Disprove me. Go on.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“That’s because I am right – life is bleak.”
“No question about it.”
“None at all.”
“But if you’re listening to this then you must found an incentive to go on.”
“To continue through the bleakness.”
“I like to call it a fuel.”
“My fuel.”
The old man stirred in his old oak chair, his bones creaking in time with the wood. He stared vacantly at the empty room, his face glowed an interesting shade of orange in the firelight. The man set a large glass down on a circular table next to the chair and wiped the brandy from his whiskers before waiting patiently for his audience to listen once more.
“I didn’t discover my fuel until I was an old man” he said in a regretful tone
“If only I’d discovered it sooner, I could have done so much more. But instead I wasted my youth, my marriage, my job” he paused to clear the lump forming in his throat, quickly remedied by a swig of brandy.
“I spent my childhood playing stickball before choosing to be a man and going down the pits, as my father did. It wasn’t much of a career but it sufficed at the time – everyone did it and I wasn’t extraordinary, not then at least. Thirty seven years in a dank pit does things to a person that change them for the rest of their life. The damp rotting air that corroded my lungs, the backbreaking, knee-scraping shuffling, but most of all the darkness. Oh the darkness. Shrouding around me like a nightmarish sheet with nothing but my headlamp to ward it away. Countless times I heard the whispers of lost miners in the darkness. Many times when my headlamp clicked off I would feel a strong arm brush past me – despite knowing I was alone.”
A throaty cough ripped through the old mans body sending a mist of sooty saliva into the warm air.
“I should have known then, that I could communicate – but all I thought about was coal. Far too dedicated to my work I was – never took the time to think about myself. I spent my life in three states of mind – thinking about coal, drunk and asleep. When your life is like that you don’t take the time to ponder perhaps you have a hidden talent or otherworldly skill”
The old man cleared his throat again and shuffled in his seat, staring into the empty room at his devoted audience.
“It wasn’t until I retired from the pits and my sweet Lydia passed on that I began to listen to the voices. The same voices I heard down the pits, the voices of miners who had lost their lives down the pit, only I heard them in my house. The voices that use to scare me became comforting to me – they’d tell me not to be scared, that I had a reason to live – that I was special.”
The old man patted his chest and he coughed furiously once again.
“The voices, the whispers on the wind as I liked to call them, told me never to tell other people about them – they were special to me. After all those years in solitude down the pits I was glad to have some people to keep me company – even if I couldn’t see them. It didn’t matter much to me.”
“As the years have passed I’ve grown to know the voices by name – they tell me about their lives, their hopes and dreams, but most of all they tell me about their deaths. In huge amounts of detail they whisper to me about how tonnes of coal collapsed on them, pinning them to the floor, slowly collapsing their lungs and stopping them from screaming for help. How they laid there for hours and days in the pitch black that robbed them of their sanity before death shrouded over their body and took their souls – leaving nothing more than their whispers on the wind.”
“Sometimes I just wish they’d stop talking to me!” cried the old man jokingly. His tentative audience laughed silently.
“Hush, hush” he said, “let me continue”
He paused briefly, waiting for the silent room to quieten down
“The whispers, they keep me busy. Sometimes they’ll spark up an interesting discussion, other times they will ask me to carry out Earthly duties for them. I’ve done it all – delivered birthday presents to orphaned children, brought love letters from beyond the grave to weeping widows and laid flowers on the fresh graves of lost relatives. If I didn’t have the whispers I think I’d have given up long ago. Boredom kills people, you know. The whispers, they’re my fuel – my reason for going on in this bleak, bleak world”
The old man took a final sip of his brandy and stood up from the old oak chair, his legs creaking as he did so. He shuffled along the floor towards a large open door and clasped the brass handle.
“Good night now” he said to the empty room “try not to keep me awake with your chattering”.
Page: