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"SSC9 - The author and the butler"

Clenching his life’s works, the satisfied author tossed his achievements over his shoulder, before comfortably grasping his second bottle of Burgundy of the winter evening. Slumping back into the seat of many of his finest hours, the author at much effort to himself clamoured back to the wine, where he gently tapped the neck of the bottle, knowing full well of the inevitable consequences. In trudged a demoralized butler who proceeded to slowly ease out the plum coloured liquid into the glass and then safely into the waiting hands much to the relief of the smug faced author.

“Cecil…” The author began, met with a disapproving expression from the butler. Sneeringly the author put it; “Do you remember what I was collecting twenty seven years ago to the day?”

The butler didn’t have to think twice as he gathered himself together to rally together a fitting answer. Gunning down the author with his eyes, the butler then abruptly broke off any visual contact as he swirled around the half finished wine cup, lowered his deep set eyes and heavily sighed.

“That would happen to be the night you won the so-called World book award, would it not?” replied the butler in an almost sulking manner.

Patronizingly, the author congratulated the response before ironing out the official name of the seventeen syllable merit. With the perfect platform laid, the author beckoned back the butler for a night of story telling leading up to the final exhilaration of picking up his only internationally recognised accolade of his fifty four year career.

Inside the mind of the butler, the seas of anguish raged at the condescending and yet graceful author who had won the minds of so many. For the butler at least, the author’s rise to fame had been an all too painful one. The pair locked in concentration at the moment, had been acquaintances for decades now, rivals for just a matter of months. The author revelled in toiling with the butler, boasts of past glories and embarrassing him. And yet the butler refused himself the opportunity to quit the post. For him, just being in this job gave him a reason to roll out of bed early every morning; it was ignition for his conceited temperament. It was fuel. Few could match the pomposity of the butler; few could match the achievements of the author.

If truth be told, the author and the butler weren’t too dissimilar to an ‘old married couple’. Nor were they too different to a comedy double act. They both complemented each other a little too well; perhaps that is why they don’t get on. Anyway back to the setting in this remote country village. The author has himself tucked away in slumber, while the butler edges around the weak laminated floorboards that play host to the floors of this old Victorian mansion. Pulling himself away from thoughts of jealousy and despise towards the author, the butler restrains how he was really hurting.

It had been a tough life up until now for the aging butler who had never really made the kind of impact he had strived so doggedly for. Unfortunately he lost out in the game of life somewhere along the way. A fine upstanding family background, university degree and even a wife for the best part of a decade had all spelled success for the butler, but like all good things in his unlucky life, his world all came tumbling down. The wife divorced, temperament changed and his degree was becoming ever more useless as he struggled to find a work field he was remotely suited to. Still, he was an expert psychiatrist in his specialist subject and a literary king – which he always used to his advantage. To sum up feelings was an excellent way of assessing individual situations and preparing his next move with the author, almost like a long drawn out chess tactical encounter.

With the traditional grandfather clock striking two in the morning, the butler flexed his muscles and settled down for the first time in days as he kicked back into the grandfather chair amidst the grandfather chimes. Scene set, the butler fumbled around some books to his left, before picking up one of the author’s own he’d casually slumped behind him earlier in the evening. Reading the final page, the butler settled himself on the last assault of the best selling gripping horror. It was a story about two friends, whose relationship had turned sour. One had taken it upon himself to butcher his friend in the cold of the morning with a kitchen knife in his friend’s house, before taking his own life with the same devastating edge of the sword. The book; ‘The Crossed Friend’ was responsible for the author’s greatest feat.

Staggering into the kitchen, the deranged butler tore open the last page of the book and followed the plot like a recipe. Grabbing a solid steel kitchen knife as akin to the one that featured so prominently in the book, the butler sharpened it severely against another blade before wiping it clean. Impact was approaching and all sense of realism for the butler at least was gone. Confusion muddled any thoughts that the butler attempted to form; all he had to work on now was this single sheet of tree bark that contained the instructions for the next few crucial moments of his life. Frantic now, much distressed, the butler hurried up the stairs – knife wielding manically. This hadn’t been how the butler wanted it all to end, but in the end he had no choice. Hate had never even entered the affray in the mindset of the befuddled butler; he really didn’t despise the author, but he also couldn’t bear to look at him for one more minute. The two were unbearable by any neutral’s reckoning, but both were adamant on their own sanity and mentality. All logic had now been well and truly thrown out the window, along with the rest of the author’s masterpiece and any sense of peace as the author made his way up the stairs.

Still asleep and seemingly unaware of any mishaps about to occur; the author appeared comfortable and relaxed as the butler hurried in. With eyes fizzing at the potential prey, the butler seethed as he drew the knife away from himself and into the neck of the author. Recalling the last sentence of dialogue from the story, the butler recalled:

"Never was it supposed to end like this."

But it was and within the next blink of the eye, the butler was dead and the author was stirring. The butler had forgotten to read the other side of the last page of the book, the one that told the story of the acquaintance surviving. Still, the extent of the butler’s anger had been unleashed, channelled – fuelled. But oh, how irony had dealt such a cruel twist...

Very good. I thought the ending paragraphs could have been made to read faster as so to build up some tention, because when I tried to read them at more pace I found myself missing parts and so I had to go back - losing the tention all the time. Overall good stuff FF.

The language use was brilliant throughout the story and you painted quite a picture - though the motive was somewhat lacking and the ending wasnt full enough - what exactly happened to kill the butler? It wasnt made obvious enough.

I think you should build the relationship between the duo some more and perhaps introduce a feud between them over something they share - such as an intellectual matter (theyre apparently both quite clever men).

Stabbing him over an argument about the capital of Paraguay would be a motive, use that.

I like the way you describe them as being like an old married couple or a comedy double act, but nothing else in the story backs this up. I think a bit more dialogue between them could have helped.

I didn't like the ending though. Sorry, it just didn't work for me, I fail to see how it's possible to read a book, and miss the last page.

Clenching his life’s works, the satisfied author tossed his achievements over his shoulder, before comfortably grasping his second bottle of Burgundy of the winter evening. Slumping back into the seat of many of his finest hours, the author at much effort to himself clamoured back to the wine, where he gently tapped the neck of the bottle, knowing full well of the inevitable consequences. In trudged a demoralized butler who proceeded to slowly ease out the plum coloured liquid into the glass and then safely into the waiting hands much to the relief of the smug faced author.

“Cecil…” The author began, met with a disapproving expression from the butler. Sneeringly the author put it; “Do you remember what I was collecting twenty seven years ago to the day?”

The butler didn’t have to think twice as he gathered himself together to rally together a fitting answer. Gunning down the author with his eyes, the butler then abruptly broke off any visual contact as he swirled around the half finished wine cup, lowered his deep set eyes and heavily sighed.

“That would happen to be the night you won the so-called World book award, would it not?” replied the butler in an almost sulking manner.

Patronizingly, the author congratulated the response before ironing out the official name of the seventeen syllable merit. With the perfect platform laid, the author beckoned back the butler for a night of story telling leading up to the final exhilaration of picking up his only internationally recognised accolade of his fifty four year career.

Inside the mind of the butler, the seas of anguish raged at the condescending and yet graceful author who had won the minds of so many. For the butler at least, the author’s rise to fame had been an all too painful one. The pair locked in concentration at the moment, had been acquaintances for decades now, rivals for just a matter of months. The author revelled in toiling with the butler, boasts of past glories and embarrassing him. And yet the butler refused himself the opportunity to quit the post. For him, just being in this job gave him a reason to roll out of bed early every morning; it was ignition for his conceited temperament. It was fuel. Few could match the pomposity of the butler; few could match the achievements of the author.

If truth be told, the author and the butler weren’t too dissimilar to an ‘old married couple’. Nor were they too different to a comedy double act. They both complemented each other a little too well; perhaps that is why they don’t get on. Anyway back to the setting in this remote country village. The author has himself tucked away in slumber, while the butler edges around the weak laminated floorboards that play host to the floors of this old Victorian mansion. Pulling himself away from thoughts of jealousy and despise towards the author, the butler restrains how he was really hurting.

It had been a tough life up until now for the aging butler who had never really made the kind of impact he had strived so doggedly for. Unfortunately he lost out in the game of life somewhere along the way. A fine upstanding family background, university degree and even a wife for the best part of a decade had all spelled success for the butler, but like all good things in his unlucky life, his world all came tumbling down. The wife divorced, temperament changed and his degree was becoming ever more useless as he struggled to find a work field he was remotely suited to. Still, he was an expert psychiatrist in his specialist subject and a literary king – which he always used to his advantage. To sum up feelings was an excellent way of assessing individual situations and preparing his next move with the author, almost like a long drawn out chess tactical encounter.

With the traditional grandfather clock striking two in the morning, the butler flexed his muscles and settled down for the first time in days as he kicked back into the grandfather chair amidst the grandfather chimes. Scene set, the butler fumbled around some books to his left, before picking up one of the author’s own he’d casually slumped behind him earlier in the evening. Reading the final page, the butler settled himself on the last assault of the best selling gripping horror. It was a story about two friends, whose relationship had turned sour. One had taken it upon himself to butcher his friend in the cold of the morning with a kitchen knife in his friend’s house, before taking his own life with the same devastating edge of the sword. The book; ‘The Crossed Friend’ was responsible for the author’s greatest feat.

Staggering into the kitchen, the deranged butler tore open the last page of the book and followed the plot like a recipe. Grabbing a solid steel kitchen knife as akin to the one that featured so prominently in the book, the butler sharpened it severely against another blade before wiping it clean. Impact was approaching and all sense of realism for the butler at least was gone. Confusion muddled any thoughts that the butler attempted to form; all he had to work on now was this single sheet of tree bark that contained the instructions for the next few crucial moments of his life. Frantic now, much distressed, the butler hurried up the stairs – knife wielding manically. This hadn’t been how the butler wanted it all to end, but in the end he had no choice. Hate had never even entered the affray in the mindset of the befuddled butler; he really didn’t despise the author, but he also couldn’t bear to look at him for one more minute. The two were unbearable by any neutral’s reckoning, but both were adamant on their own sanity and mentality. All logic had now been well and truly thrown out the window, along with the rest of the author’s masterpiece and any sense of peace as the author made his way up the stairs.

Still asleep and seemingly unaware of any mishaps about to occur; the author appeared comfortable and relaxed as the butler hurried in. With eyes fizzing at the potential prey, the butler seethed as he drew the knife away from himself and into the neck of the author. Recalling the last sentence of dialogue from the story, the butler recalled:

"Never was it supposed to end like this."

But it was and within the next blink of the eye, the butler was dead and the author was stirring. The butler had forgotten to read the other side of the last page of the book, the one that told the story of the acquaintance surviving. Still, the extent of the butler’s anger had been unleashed, channelled – fuelled. But oh, how irony had dealt such a cruel twist...