Writing by Candle-light - Part 3

Joseph stirred as the harsh and unfeeling rays of morning sunlight breached the thin material of his curtains. He wanted to shut out that sunlight, he wanted to remain safe in bed hidden from the truth that he had left the world of poets for the last time. In his mind Joseph tried to bargain with the many spirits he was sure filled the ether that surrounded him. He would give all he could to be frozen in that one moment, safe and warm. In mere seconds the warmth and safety of his blanket were ripped from him as he stood and staggered to the window. As he had done on many occasions Joseph looked out to see the rows of dilapidated houses. Like most of the houses in the area Joseph lived in a small terraced property that was little more than a tenement block. Crossing from the window to his desk he lowered himself into the faithful companion of his chair.



In the time that had passed since the last occasion on which he had lit the candle before him, Joseph had woken everyday to edit writing that simply did not exist. The pen, whose ink had once been the very lifeblood of his soul, now laid to rest with it’s work incomplete. At first Joseph’s lack of inspiration had frustrated him more than he thought possible. Night after night he had sat at this desk, maddened by lack of words on the page before him. Likewise, each morning that followed was another stab into his heart, as his morning ritual of editing slipped away. With no words to edit, Joseph stood and paced.


Increasingly Joseph found that his days were plain and boring. Where once he had let words flow from him like great storms now, Joseph only spoke when necessary. As he stood his eyes fell on the thing that was more precious to him than his own writing, his bookcase. Contained within were one hundred and ninety reasons that Joseph was impoverished. He ran his hand over the spines of leather and cloth bound books, he knew each imperfection in them and cherished them almost as dearly as most men cherish women.


Joseph took pause as he hovered over his desk, for a brief moment he remembered the reason for coming to the peninsula. Years ago, Joseph had been a scholar. Well read, eloquent with a great intellect. Joseph’s wish that he might attend a well respected school at which to study was lost among the dilapidated wonders of Wirral. Across the river, the city had once seemed so bright and full of opportunities. Now it seemed as though the rot which infested the tenements and ramshackle houses wormed its way into the heart of the city, shattering dreams and ambition. Joseph had found the gloss of the city and its university to be hollow and of no substance. In an attempt to rail against the city, he had turned to writing in the hope that one day he might tear apart the veil that covered society. Joseph longed to expose the frivolity and decadence of a city which, like an unfeeling leech sucked the talent and hopes from its people.


To the left of his desk lay the any manuscripts that contained Joseph’s collected short stories. His every attempt lay before him in plain simplicity. In that moment that he stood, his hand upon the stack of writings, it was his father’s last words to him that rang through his head.

“When I became a man, I put aside childish things. You are a man, now it is time to forget the follies of your youth.”

At the time those words had burned through Joseph’s soul. His father, who had always been a spiritual man, could never have contemplated the situation in which Joseph currently found himself. He was a man headed to university, a man with a future. At the time Joseph had a strong sense of purpose. He would become well-respected professor of English. Every step in his life, Joseph had planned years in advance. He was to be a gentleman and a scholar.


Facing yet another empty day Joseph dressed ready to take a stroll in the bracing winter air. It took just one step away from the doorstep for Joseph to realise that today would be different.


Something would happen, something good.