Prolouge

Prologue

I watched intently as the publisher studied the many papers that had been placed in front of him. The seemingly vast room was silent, spare the turning of pages as he searched for words to say to me. Every few moments he cleared his throat or breathed deeply rather than speak to me. I waited while he briefly flipped through the pages. Finally he set them down and laced his fingers and looked directly at me.

“Your work is nothing short of exceptional, but it falls short of our qualifications.”

               My heart sank, I had been hopeful earlier this morning walking up the steps of the publishing building, but now I knew it was beyond my reach.

“The problem with your work is that it has a tragic ending,” he started, “during a time of war no one wishes to suffer the tragedies you dish out for them, they need an anesthetic, a feel good story that will help them forget about the horrors they face in their everyday lives.” I could only sit and listen to what he had to say, “I like your work Mr. Foster I really do, the problem is that I’m not sure if anyone else will, we can’t risk what little profits we make on your work.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more accommodating for you.” I apologized.

“Mr. Foster it’s not that you’re not talented, but at this time it would be more suitable for a magazine or newspaper column.”

“I see.” As he continued to speak I completely tuned him out and began to contemplate what I could do next.

               After a few moments the publisher finished speaking with me and stood, “Thank you for your time Mr. Foster, I hope to hear of you soon.”

               Standing as well I shook his hand and smiled, “Thank you for your time.” I grabbed the pile of papers and saw myself to the door.

               Rather than feel disappointed about my recent defeat I decided to take the advice of the publisher and go to a newspaper, sure that any editor would be eager to publish a story; Then again I was sure that it would be published as a work of fiction but, this seemed a good alternative. After all I needed to put food on the table and pay rent for my tiny apartment.

               Stepping outside the massive publishing building the streets were filled with people running about their business. Street peddlers were trying to make a quick penny selling their goods or newspapers. A crowd had gathered around a boy who was selling papers.

“War continues across the front!” the boy shouted as he frantically waved the papers in the air in hopes of attracting more people.

“Here boy.” I said, we exchanged money for paper and he was off again.

“It’s a shame so many are being wounded in Europe.”

“My son joined but a few months ago, he sent word that the war against Germany should be short, I’m not too sure of his word I’m afraid.”

“We need to show those German scums we can’t be pushed around, it’s for the best.”

“I’ve heard not enough men are joining to help the efforts”

“What about you boy, aren’t you boy, why aren’t you in Europe helping the effort?”

               I looked up from the paper I had been looking over and noticed the few people who had been talking had now turned their attention towards me, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I wasn’t listening.” I had been, but I was hoping to further avoid the question.

“You look capable of serving for Britain, why haven’t you enlisted?” the man questioned.

“I went to enlist sir but unfortunately I did not meet the qualifications.” I informed the man; a few of the other people who had been listening looked at me quizzically, as they were trying to evaluate my condition based on what they saw.

“I understand, only the best go and fight, while the rest sit back and watch” The man concluded, he didn’t believe me, neither did the others.

“Yes sir, both you and I.” I stated before folding the paper under my arm and heading off in the opposite direction. I could feel the eyes of the few who had listened watching me as I limped my way down the street.

               It had been nearly five years since I had been ‘gifted’ with my limp. I remember working on a farm during the summer before I had turned 16. I had been tossing hay from the loft in a barn down to the floor for others to carry to the horses. While I had a bale in my arms one of the planks of wood that had been rotting away suddenly snapped and I fell along with the hay bale and shattered my leg.    It had been excruciatingly painful and I had stayed in bed for weeks while it healed. Since then I have had a limp, which is what deemed me as unsuitable for the military.

               While I had wanted to join I couldn’t, so I was subject to criticism that I didn’t necessarily wish for; Such as the white feather which was constantly finding its way to me marking me as a coward; the military has no use for a man with a lame leg.

               Because of the war I was laid off from my desk job, and since, haven’t found anything that suits my leg. So, as a result I alienated myself from most of the world and began writing. I no longer cared for my looks or what I needed to do in order to get a paycheck, I simply wrote. After the countless hours of research and staying up well after midnight I had finally completed one of my most favorite works. I had read and re-read through it taking and adding what was necessary and concluded that nothing more could e done to it. I had wanted to get it published in order to put food on the table and pay rent and nothing more.

               After the long walk in the now chilling weather through the city I finally reached the apartment building in which I called home. Though the walls were as thin as paper and the owner refused to start using the heater until mid October, it was all I could afford to call home.

               I stepped up the few stairs where children played until their mothers would call them home. Just inside I saw Maggie, the landlord’s daughter sitting at the desk either reading or drawing to pass time.

“Hi Charlie, getting pretty cold outside huh?” she asked as she put down the paper she as reading.

“Not as cold as inside.”

“Aren’t you a cheeky devil?” she said, “We’re not forcing you to stay.”

“I’d have left sooner if it weren’t for my furniture frozen to the floor.”

“God bless the woman who raised you Charlie, you must have been a handful.”

               Maggie is a few years younger than me, but she certainly had a mouth the size of a cave and couldn’t control her tongue, but neither could I. She was really the only person I knew in the apartment complex, and practically the only one I spoke to in the building.

“Maggie, how are you this evening?” an elderly woman asked as she stepped through the doors into the building.

“Fine Mrs. Lewis, how are you?”

“I’m a bit cold, but inside it is much warmer.” The woman shared with a polite smile.

“Wonderful, Charlie and I were just talking about that, what was that you said Charlie?” Maggie asked now turning her attention towards me, “Something about not being able to leave because our conditions are so accommodating?”

Her sly smile widened as I turned towards Mrs. Lewis and said, “Of course.”

“Well young man, it was very nice meeting you.” She started, “It was good speaking with you Maggie, due be sure to tell your parents I say hello.”

“Yes Maggie, be sure to tell them the heat is just delightful.” I teased as I began walking to the stairs.

“Have a good night you two!” Maggie called from the desk as we both made our way to the stairs.

               I lived on the fourth and top floor of the apartment building, making the trek up and down the stair each day exhausting. Though not many people preferred the top floor, it was cheaper and no one would complain about the constant chatter of a typewriter during the night.

               Finally making it to my apartment I removed a key from the top of my doorframe and unlocked the door. Inside it was dark; I turned on the light bulb closest to the door and stepped in shutting the door behind me.

               The apartment was small, but it fit my needs. I was one man, not a family of 13, which I seemed to hear often during the day. I had a grand total of two windows one of which faced another building, but I still got enough light during the day to keep my skin from turning pale. I had a counter for food and dishes, with a sink, and small oven. I didn’t have a washroom of my own, the fourth floor has to share its washroom, and luckily it was only me and a few others who had to share.

               I sat down at my table placing the paper and manuscript I had been carrying in front of me. I was running out of the small bit I had saved from my prior job and needed to find something to help me stay where I was rather than the streets.

               I tried recalling what the publisher had told me as a consolation after telling me that my work would be a waste of his company’s time. He had told me it would make for a great newspaper column or magazine story, but it was fiction. All of it was an elaborate story I had dreamed up, but did that mean he thought it was real? As I contemplated what I should do I glanced at the newspaper in front of me at an add that had caught my eye.

Open space for talented journalists, fair pay, if interested write or call The Toronto World Publishing co. For more details see page 10b.

               It was as if God himself wanted me to lie and send a letter telling the editor I had a perfect story and in it was true and had actually happened. I continued to stare at the add that was taunting me and finally decided to write a letter promising myself I would dare put a stamp on it, repeatedly telling myself I would ever send it to the newspaper, and saying I was only writing the letter for the sole purpose of getting the incredibly ridiculous idea out of my scrambled mind.

               I opened the paper to page 10b, found the address and the name to send it to, James Butler was the one who was probably receiving many letters from rudimentary writers who actually had something worthwhile to share. I would never send such a letter in which everything was a lie, I only needed to sit down and focus on something to take my mind off of my current situation.

James Butler,

               My name is Charlie Foster, I am in search of my brother who has gone missing in action and still is. I have been to England, Germany, and Italy and have had very little luck in my search. I have been noting my journey and would like to publish it in hopes of finding another lead to my brother Allen, before I return to Europe.

                Charlie Foster

               I sat back in my chair, somehow only writing the simple letter didn’t seem like enough. I began to revise my first chapter in order to make it sound as if my brother had gone missing. I grew up an only child so it was a little more complicated to become emotionally attached to a fictional person. When I had finished revising the first chapter I placed both it and the letter into an envelope and closed it. Reminding myself once more I couldn’t send it, because it was fiction, and people want real news.

               By now it was dark and I hadn’t had anything to eat since this morning. All I had in the apartment was a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese. I made ate the cheese and slice of bread as I read through the rest of the newspaper, most of it was of the war and a few other pieces that were meant to make one forget about the war.

               A knock came from the door, “Charlie, its Maggie.” I heard from the other side of the door. I stood and opened it for her, as any gentleman would, “I forgot to give you your mail. Also we had left over broth and my mother suggested we bring some to some of the lonely tenants.”

“Such as myself.” I said, I wasn’t the least bit mad, it was one of the higher points of living with landlords who were constantly making too much food.

“Well if you don’t want it.” She taunted as she turned back around with my mail and soup.

“No, please come in.” I said holding the door for her.

               She cautiously stepped in and set the bowl and few pieces of mail on the table.

“What’s all this?” she asked as she examined the pile of papers that had been scattered across the table.

“Nothing to bother with.” I told her as I cleared the papers and went to go put them in my room.

“I’d better be going, I can mail this letter of yours when I get back down to the lobby.” She told me, I heard her shut the door as she left and I continued to order the papers still not yet registering what she had just said to me.

               After sorting and putting the manuscript where my others were, in a suitcase under the bed I went back out to the kitchen. The broth was still steaming and its smell drifted to me practically begging me to scarf it down. Then I realized, the letter was gone.

               After thinking about what Maggie had said it registered, I needed to get the letter back. I ran out of the apartment and dashed down the stairs practically knocking over a woman carrying a sack of goods.

“My apologies ma’am.” I called to her as I rushed past her, ignoring whatever comments she had to say.

               I finally came to the desk where Maggie sat, “Maggie, where’s the letter?”

“What?”

“The letter, the one you said you’d mail.” I huffed, out of breath.

“Oh, I managed to catch a mailman on his way back to the post office, pretty lucky right?” she said, pleased with herself.

               I ran out of the building and down the stairs in hopes of catching the mailman, but he was nowhere to be seen. I stood in the streets turning around trying to catch a glimpse of which way he could have gone. It was no use, he was gone, along with the letter.

“What’s the matter Charlie?” Maggie asked as she came down the stairs, wondering about what the panic was about my letter.

               I didn’t answer, I could only try to think of the many ways it could get lost and hope it would or be overlooked. After all, there were probably hundreds of other articles and stories being sent to the newspaper, what are the chances of mine getting chosen over the others.

               Though I would probably be figured out from the very beginning, I could only wonder what could happen next. And what did happen, I wasn’t prepared for.

Author's Note

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