Love Stories

A Story by Tim Wilkinson

All stories are really love stories, right?

Title: Love Stories

Word count: 2,093

Author: Tim Wilkinson

Love Stories

Tim Wilkinson

The night was black and cold, the icy drizzle that fell from the low hung sky freezing upon contact with the blackened surface of the potholed, asphalt road, while coating the small panes of the pubs windows with a milky, frosty sheen. The autumn moon, hidden from view by low-slung banks of gray, did little to dispel the deep and impenetrable darkness that slunk and oozed into every corner of the small hamlet like warm, viscous rivers of coal hued molasses. From without, even had one been standing at the foot of the tall, multi-pane windows, little within was discernible, little beside the vague, amorphous shapes shuffling lazily across the viewer’s field of vision as if floating on vaporous layers of shifting mist, each ghostly visage veiled in a rich, hazy glow of golden iridescence.

Yet beyond the barrier of ice encrusted glass the pub beckoned, warm and inviting, the air sparsely scented with the earthy aromas of charred pine, smoldering oak, and the lightest touch of cinnamon and sweetened clove. These last, rising from the spiced contents of thick, clay fired mugs and mixing with the scents of cherry flavored tobacco, barrel aged whisky, and the spiraling tendrils escaping from the glowing, aromatic embers crackling spritely in the large stone hearth, saturated the heated air while instilling in the few, reclusive inhabitants, a relaxed yet merry mood.

The subdued and muted atmosphere of the sparsely populated, dimly lit space, as well as those partaking of its reclusive, calming effects seemed impervious to the intermittent popping’s and erratic, reptilian hiss of the searing logs. Only the low and constant murmur of easy and friendly conversation, the occasional burst of light and casual laughter, or the high toned chime of glass against glass gave credence to the humor and lively spirits of those seeking refuge within. Where, tucked away in one shadowed corner, seated at a small wooden table set to the front and far end of the pub’s front window, rested two figures, their attention seemingly buried in pensive, reflective thought. These two figures, each settled comfortably across from one another on opposite ends of the table, sipping sporadically from thick-glassed, frost encrusted mugs, sat motionless, smoking in wordless reverie. And with heads down and shoulders slumping forward, neither regarded the other or made any attempt at conversation for several long minutes, until suddenly, the older of the two spoke and broke the heavy silence.

“No, Robert, I can think of no examples to the contrary. So I’m going to have to stick to what I’ve already said, that at their core, every story is kind-of a love story; or to be more precise, every story is founded and premised on the affections, the love if you will, of the author, or a character or characters, of, about, or for a thing prominently important to the story line, and that there really are no exceptions to the rule. So yes, I stand by my first assertion that every story, in one way or another, is in fact a love story.”

“How can you possibly say that,” Robert Denny replied, guzzling the last of his tall draft while signaling the waiter for another. “You don’t really believe that crap, do you?”

“I do, and most emphatically. I’ve thought long and hard about this, and as hard as it may be for you to accept, in this case, as in most I might add, I happen to be right.”

“Oh, well la-de-da. Then I can’t wait to hear how you dare defend such an off the wall blanket statement.”

“Defend? There is nothing to defend,” Roberts’s friend, editor, and sometimes collaborator James Elder shot back. “Facts are facts, truth is truth, and no amount of debate, rancor, or today’s idiotic predilection for the cowardly, deceptive w***e of political correctness can or will ever change that.”

“Really? Now, don’t be shy James. Please, tell me what you really think.”

“F**k off,” parried James, grinning whimsically at his longtime friend. “You know how I detest the imbecilic fools of today, those that prattle on so without a word of truth, the recognition of its possible existence, or the balls to speak it, even had they the decency to admit it, which of course they don’t and never will.”

“Yes, yes I do James. As do I. But before you get too comfortable on that soap box of yours, let’s get back to the point. So every story is a love story, huh? I got to admit it’s a very interesting theory, but perhaps all a bit too tidy and well, just a bit too damn easy.”

“The best, most honest answers usually are, too damn easy that is. Don’t you agree?”

“Perhaps, then again, perhaps not. And if you think so in this case I’m afraid you’ll have to convince me as I’m not ready to accept such a simplistic, all-encompassing statement as that, not yet anyway. Afraid I need a bit more persuasion. But before we go there, I have an idea. How do you feel about backing your assertions with a little wager of, say---oh, I don’t know, two, four finger glasses of Miguel’s finest, that twenty-five year old single malt he keeps hidden in the back; the tab on the looser of course.”

“Done, sucker. I hope your mumsie gave you your weekly allowance today, because I’ve got a hunch you’re going to need it.”

“Stow it. This ain’t over yet. So go ahead and convince me, if you dare.”

“Don’t worry, this won’t take long and it’ll be relatively painless, until it’s time to pay up that is. I suppose you know that Miguel’s twenty-five year old single malt is over fifty dollars an ounce.”

“I do. Which is exactly why I made the wager. How the hell could I ever afford to pay for something as decadent as that, without leaning on your royalties that is. And from where I sit this is a no brainer because nothing is that simple.”

“Okay then, but before I go any further, let me first say that this word we so easily and openly bandy about, this word love; I think you’ll have to agree as any rational person must, that it is over-used and under-lived.”

“Granted.”

“Good. But nonetheless, for the purpose of this discussion I will continue to use it, because what I am proposing really is a very simple concept, and to use the word love to describe the level of affection that I am speaking of is not so farfetched. Besides, it kind of brings it down to the level of the masses.”

“You mean it helps to dumb it down, for people like me?”

“As you say Robert.”

“Snob.”

“Nevertheless, I hope you don’t mind if I jump right in, seems I’m getting a bit parched with all this idle chit-chat. Now try and think of it like this, if you can. Even when one writes about what one despises, isn’t that of itself an evidence of what one doesn’t, an expression of what one admires, or yes, even loves? How can one despise evil for example, without having an affection for goodness? And along those same lines, how may one express an affinity for any one thing, without revealing an aversion to another. How can one feel affectionate, or loving towards any given subject or person without at the same instant possessing a distaste or even a loathing of another? How is it possible recognize and idolize beauty let’s say, without the awareness or opinion of what isn’t? As for the subject matter itself, for starters at least, we can eliminate every actual love story, every boy likes girl, girl likes boy, and the currently ever popular, girl loves girl, and boy loves boy stories, right?”

“Sure, that seems obvious enough.”

“So, right there, with the simple addition of all the stories about dogs, cats, and pets in general, we eliminate seventy to eighty percent of every story ever written, as these obviously all constitute, in one form or another, a love story.”

“I’ll concede you that much, but I’m still not convinced. What about war stories.”

“Their no different. Whether true or fictional they are all essentially love stories.”

“Now that’s a hell of a stretch. How do you figure that?”

“Easy, they are all about, involving, or centered around the love of war, love of brother, unit, corp. How about the love of honor, of duty, God, king, and country. And then there’s the darker side, love of death, of gore, of victory and another’s defeat, love of violence, of conflict, subjugation, and supremacy. Need I go on?”

“What of detective and mystery stories, Sherlock Holmes for instance?”

“Love of justice, love of science and technology, love of self, and the love of intellect for sure. How about the love of adventure, love of pride, success, the law, love of…”

“Okay, enough. What of things like fairy tales? How about Hansel and Gretel?”

“Love of candied sweets, of adventure, love of brother or sister, love of family, tribe, culture or race, love of principle, morality, wisdom, love of beauty and fantasy, love of magic, majesty, and lore, love of dreams and idle wishes, love of hero, sorcery and darkness.”

“Hitler or Stalin?”

“Love of power, control, and revenge, love of hatred, slaughter, and dominion, love of fear, love of death, torture, and genocide, love of punishment for the workers of evil, of history, of decadence, and madness.”

“History, culture, minorities, what about black history?”

“Easy, most usually they speak of the love of the motherland, of home, love of race, love of freedom, of family, and respect, love of humanity, honor and self-reliance, love of opportunity, and dreams, of possibility, past customs and future beginnings. And for anything published in the last fifty years, love of excuses, lies, and shifted responsibility, love of hatred, bigotry and racism, love of blame, love of easy, love of violence, and revenge, love of sex, and of drugs, love of murder, stupidity, sloth, and abuse, love of welfare, of woe is me, self-pity and self-victimization”

“Porn?”

“Love of the flesh, of sex, domination, love of control, masturbation, orgasm and release.”

“Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn?”

“Love of nature, love of the river, home, freedom, self-reliance, escape and loneness.”

“Then how about the Bible, or religious text’s in general?”

“Easy, in the former, love of God, and of Christ, love of mankind, and of life. In the latter, love of idols, of fiction and fabrication, as well as the love of one’s-self, love of murder, rape, child molestation, love of boy toys, control, and abject slavery.”

“Oh come on, there has to be some exception. What about science fiction?”

“Love of the unknown, of possibilities, and the future, love of technology, science, love of the pride of man and his inventions, love of ourselves, so on, and so an. So, no. As far as I can judge, there are no exceptions, none that I can imagine at any rate. And I dare say neither you nor anyone else can cite me any examples, nor list for me the title of any novel, book, or story not based on the love of something, whether that something be a good thing, or bad, whether worthy or evil, selfless or selfish. And the reason that it can’t be done is quite simply because every story ever written is balanced, or built upon the love of one thing or another, the love of money, or of hate, love of war, of spite, of evil or good, love of perversity or morality; of sex, sodomy, or chastity; of breast, penis, or vagina; of dog, cat, or cow; of kiss, bite, strike, or caress; of violence, control, slavery, or freedom. And why is this so? Because so is every human for these same things driven, every human that has ever walked this earth at least, and perhaps writers most of all. So what challenge can you mount to this? What title or genre can you name that proves me wrong? Go ahead, I’m ready, shoot.”

“James, I believe I have only one thing to add, one simple statement, or question really, that will finish this and settle our debate once and for all.”

“Oh, such confidence beware, for pride does go before every fall. And that one thing is…?”

“Do you take your scotch on the rocks, or straight up?”