The Antique

By Donald Mackay

It was suggested to the author of this book of short stories that he relate his education accomplishments and high points in his life as it related to writing. Universities, and there were several, creative writing as far as those were available to an old student. He served four years active and four years reserve in the military. At fifty six he decided to graduate from high school. He had already been to three universities, learning Spanish, Russian, and Latin, and had taken a first course in creative writing. It was the first, of several rather unsteady steps, to a possible life of writing short stories. After graduating from high school he proceeded to move from one university creative writing course to another until he reached the university of N.C. at Chapel Hill with a professor, a well known writer, who taught advanced creative writing . It was required that a demonstration of writing ability needed to be offered before a student would be accepted to his class. MR. MacKay was accepted and presented many stories to the professor who was well taken with the creative talent demonstrated. It was the most positive acceptance by a professional writer and a compliment beyond any this writer had ever received. This is book #5 of a list of 8. Maybe he could be an accepted writer; that remains to be seen. Readers will make that judgment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499023015

Donald Mackay

It was suggested to the author of this book of short stories that he relate his education accomplishments and high points in his life as it related to writing. Universities, and there were several, creative writing as far as those were available to an old student. He served four years active and four years reserve in the military. At fifty six he decided to graduate from high school. He had already been to three universities, learning Spanish, Russian, and Latin, and had taken a first course in creative writing. It was the first, of several rather unsteady steps, to a possible life of writing short stories. After graduating from high school he proceeded to move from one university creative writing course to another until he reached the university of N.C. at Chapel Hill with a professor, a well known writer, who taught advanced creative writing . It was required that a demonstration of writing ability needed to be offered before a student would be accepted to his class. MR. MacKay was accepted and presented many stories to the professor who was well taken with the creative talent demonstrated. It was the most positive acceptance by a professional writer and a compliment beyond any this writer had ever received. This is book #5 of a list of 8. Maybe he could be an accepted writer; that remains to be seen. Readers will make that judgment.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by donald mackay.

Library of Congress Control Number:                     2014909083

ISBN:                  Hardcover                             978-1-4990-2305-3

                            Softcover                               978-1-4990-2306-0

                            eBook                                    978-1-4990-2301-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/14/2014

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CONTENTS

1.   The Antique

2.   The Old Soldier and the Blind Girl

3.   The Treasure

4.   Prisoner LL-144321-JPQ

5.   Strange Things Do Happen

6.   Why?

7.   Transition

8.   The Executioner and His Lady

9.   The Heretic

10.   Willy

11.   The Stones

12.   The Bravest Man I Never Met

13.   All About Stew

14.   Desire and Want

15.   Reflections in the Mind’s Eye

A Roman thinker uttered these words that became the

foundation of my life’s philosophy: Aut inveniam, viam

aut faciam; either I’ll find a way, or I’ll make one.

INTRODUCTION

The title of this book The Antique refers to the desk and the author as well. All the stories are fiction and do not relate to a living person. The antique writing desk pictured on the book’s front cover allows many stories to emerge. I sit at this desk many hours each day, and the fascination and the actual warmth I receive from it has no logical basis. It’s a lot like the previous owners left some of their energy behind. The content’s list will show what to expect as to variety.

The story about the old soldier and the blind girl will test a reader’s emotions. It is a theme that surfaces in almost all my books. Love is the one thing the Creator of all gave us. The facts about the girl in the story falling and sustaining a head injury causing the brain to swell that affects the chiasm or cross shaped point of the optic nerves resulted in inflammation of the optic nerves giving the girl’s blindness. And so, it is quite possible that falling and hitting one’s head can give a state of blindness. A condition called retinal detachment. I offer my thanks to the eye specialist, DR. Teresa Decker for her factual information giving more depth to the story and the condition of blindness for the girl in the story.

Of course, it is the hardship in life and the suffering we endure that brings out true human values. To stand and endure life’s offering of pain, even in the face of disaster, and still find that love exists; this will mark you. The courage to carry on, even in the face of a pure disaster, this is what makes mankind an animal in possession of potential for true greatness; if only he could see that.

THE ANTIQUE

On that day of fate, I was driving down the road near an antique store, when I was very nearly forced to stop and go in. How very odd; I have driven past this store a hundred times and never felt any need to go in. At my age, I was almost a living antique; did I need another one? As soon as I walked into the antique store, I was almost marched to a sheltered corner. That’s where I saw the desk. Did a voice call out thoughts to me? I swear I heard these words: ‘Come in and buy this desk. Buy this desk, buy it, buy, it buy it, you won’t be sorry.’

The writing desk was in poor condition, when I saw it in the out of the way corner of Mike’s Antique store. Mike’s store is located on the main highway leading to or from Millington, Michigan. It’s just a small town; not too much to offer those who pass by on their way north or south. I was drawn to the desk, and I would never deny that fact. Was there a voice from the darkness sweetly calling to me? There was something about the desk; what was it? Perhaps it was some kind of residual energy? But it would be some time before I discovered the answer to that question. If there was a voice that called to me from the shadows that would certainly stir up my writer’s mind, how would that change my life? I really don’t know very much about anything metaphysical or other worldly mysteries. Woefully ignorant are words that would tell it the way it was for me in an honest way. I thought I knew a great deal; that’s what thought will do for you. It’s frightening to discover how little one actually knows.

A few special people are mesmerized by antiques. There’s something about the fact that they were possessed and used in work or play by their temporary owners, and some of the antiques were actually loved by those people who are long since dead. While the owner lived, it was only a borrowed item, as it was so with all things in life. We humans only borrowed love and children and material things. Perhaps the desk still held the vibrant energy of the individuals who sat at the desk. How many hours were spent creating letters or stories sitting at the desk, no one could say, certainly not I.

It would not be proper to tell you what my name actually is. I might be a very famous writer one day. Of course, success was mostly, to be sure, only a dim light in my mind at this point. Call me Donald, for want of a better name; a common enough name. I am an older man; born in 1935, which makes me 78. I made no verbal claim to be an extraordinary writer of fine works. At this moment, I have no ability to stun people with my magnificent prose. Of course, I have my moments of creation. I was quite often saying to my friends: ‘It would be nice to hear gushing complements about my work.’ But the word gush does not seem to work real well describing my last efforts.

But now, as I sit at my antique desk, for which I have expressed deep feelings of affection to all who would listen, I have begun creating wonders of magical prose and poetry well beyond my former ability. How to explain my new degree of talent? It was actually more a feeling of pure love that touched me. The desk is just an inanimate object, a lovely, decorated piece of wood, you would say? But I tell you, without embarrassment, that it is real love I feel. Was I in real danger as I teetered on the very edge of insanity in my old age? Perhaps it was a case of severe senility? Well, it was something yet to be discovered.

It had been said, quite recently, that I was a writer with an outrageous imagination without the slightest idea what grammar and proper English consisted. Of course, that should answer the question concerning my affection for the desk perfectly. Lonely people get that way in their old age. What has happened to me? What has changed me? Where did my new found talent come from?

Before the antique desk came into my life, a few compliments fluttered by me like wayward leaves falling from a tree in autumn. On occasion, where I had performed well above my usual failed efforts at perfection, it might just be said a praised effort came by way of some sort of miracle. Perhaps, it was offered by a kind hearted muse. I would gladly confess that I have no idea what the deuce an actual muse was or is. But if I had one, I would be grateful for any help a muse voluntarily gave me.

I have readily confessed to all who would listen, the stories and poetry I was now producing were too fine for my hand alone to have created them. What has changed my stories to such perfection that was not possible just a few weeks ago? Yes, it was a mystery, but should I go in search of the reason, or should I just enjoy the gushing praise that has fallen on me of late? Which outstanding story that I had created could one say the praise was not really deserved? Now the question of honesty has raised its curly locks. I was in a quandary; what to do; what to do? My name was on the work, and no one can deprive me of the pleasure of creating these exquisite works, even if they did arrive in the night as I slept.

Should I do the right thing and confess or just bask in the warmth and bathe my ego in the offered glory? I had to confess, because I have a brutal conscience that gives me no rest. I now offered listeners the idea that took up residence in my mind. I said I thought my miracle of creative ability was either the Antique Desk, or possibly the ghost of Anton Pavlovich Chekhov or, the Queen of Heaven be Praised, the Prince of Russian literature, Ivan Turgenev. Perhaps they took pity on a failing writer and gave me these wonderful thoughts in the night for me to put on paper. I would never deny anything at this point.

After a great deal of searching my internal mental part which was what a few experts often called the subconscious mind or maybe the super ego, I began to see part of the answer. Perhaps, one could call it the midnight spokesman of one’s soul. I began to investigate the source of my newly found ability. Sitting at my antique desk, I considered a new, excellent work of art that had arrived in the night which literally crashed into my less than nimble brain. I was actually stunned by the force that drove it between my ears.

Yes, I was now firmly convinced and had arrived at the conclusion, that it was the writing desk that was doing all this to me and not some Russian ghost from the past. The desk was possessed. I knew it was so when I heard the knocking sound that came from the desk. I knew it was madness to allow or reveal one’s insane ideas out loud to rational people, but every now and again, I claimed to have heard a knocking sound. It was like, well, like someone was at my door. Something wanted my attention. As the knocking sound occurred, heavy thoughts arrived and no stopping them was possible. It was a powerful command that was not to be ignored, at least not by me. Thoughts no longer required the darkness of night to present the stories and poetry to my mind.

I was beginning to write thoughts, beautiful, deep, and moving thoughts that brought tears to my eyes. Such thoughts and words were so exquisite; I could do little but wipe the tears from my eyes as best I could, while trying to type as fast as possible to catch the wonder that was mine to have. No creature called a living human I knew in literature offered such depth, such painful combinations of prose as had been arriving. You shall see these stories that came to me in the night. I plan to offer them in publication very soon. For now, I’ll offer a bit of the prose here, but it’s only a small amount compared to the stories in books soon to be announced.

At that critical moment, the phone rang, and the magic was gone. It was a politician’s survey that intruded on my passport into the realm of wonder. I was not given to using evil words, at least not too often, but this time, I offered the phone a good many of them. I had not used them in a long time; it felt good to assert myself. Well, actually, I felt shame swarm over my mind with a persistent heat for my momentary verbal failure. I vowed to do better next time, and not use so many of these words that are shunned in mixed company. Use them too often and they become common place. Someone said that to me one day.

But, before proceeding, we need to return to the day I bought the desk. I began to work, fixing it. It was really a sad, mistreated, piece of furniture. One of the back legs was split and the wood must have been wet at some time, as it had begun to show signs of rot. How one leg could be wet and not the other three was a mystery. But that’s not all that was wrong with this lovely desk. A drawer was missing and someone had a new one made, but it did not fit the exact form as the original drawers. It had no metal key shield on its face and other missing metal, key shields as well. And so, it was necessary for me to make new ones. The legs in back were fitted with copper sleeves that were formed and soldered and fitted around the legs and tacked into place, which saves the legs from further damage. Of course, any tampering with an antique would ruin the provenance and ultimately the dollar value. But I had no intention of ever selling my beloved desk anyway. So, the connoisseurs of fine furniture can go ahead and stuff their opinion as to proper behavior. I gave my desk all the loving care I could possibly manage. Mind you, it was not perfection of accomplishment, but it was the best I had to offer the desk that was in my keeping.

Now, to the knocking sound that was coming from the desk; what exactly was it? What might it be? Well, all the obvious reasons and a few that were not so obvious were examined and discarded. It can only be surmised that the previous owner’s spirit had managed to stay with the desk by some means not understood by mankind, and certainly not by me. I could well understand why she would want to do that. She probably loved the desk as much as I did. And yes, I did find out the original owner was actually a female.

The desk was purely and outstandingly a lovely work of art. The front of the desk, which folds down, had a magnificent carving that is beyond excellent. The pleasure to possess such a desk in one’s life time cannot be stressed enough.

As I was cleaning and re-working the desk’s failures, I noticed the left hinge was discolored by something. I was later to discover, it was dried blood. My granddaughter is a trained biologist, and a really intelligent and a lovely and well educated young lady; she recognized it right away. Well, now the mystery was beginning to get really intense. As I tipped the desk