Writing by Candle-light - Part Two

Weeks had passed and Joseph faced the harsh truth that he was just four short weeks away from the executioner's block that was a "normal" life. In the weeks that had passed since that night, Joseph had managed to write only a title. "Writing by Candle-light" was to be his great novel, a story that showed the great injustices of the world to which he felt he barely belonged. He knew each and every character; he knew their names, their lives and their loves far better than he knew his own family. Joseph also knew that his characters were stubborn, and refused to be put to work in the telling of a great story. Instead they floated about and added to his already tormented mind.




Joseph looked upon the public house before him. It was a place that had been around for many decades and was the haunt of the vice ridden, eccentrics that called themselves poets. Each month the poets overtook this small ale-house to share their turbulent, odd and often witty outpourings. Unlike their French bohemian cousins, who fed their minds with Absinthe, these Bards drank warm ales and inexpensive wines. Taking his usual place at the back of the room, Joseph looked around the room to see the familiar decoration of the place that had made him so welcome. Though he would see the poets again at the many varied haunts, Joseph sighed as he realised that this would be the final time that he would see this room, in this ale-house, overlooking the river that was the life-line of the area.



Taking to the lectern from which the poets delivered their considered wordings, Joseph took a look at the faces he had come to know and respect. Joseph knew well that were it not for the lack of fortune in the place and time in which they were born, these poets would have been honoured and respected by the masses. With his nervous energy growing, Joseph began to deliver his farewell. Joseph had written this poem many months prior, and though he hoped it would never be read it was to fulfil its purpose. Whether his comrades knew it or not, this poem was written to say goodbye to the life that he loved so dearly, the life of an artist. With neither flourish, nor theatrics Joseph delivered the final line.



“From this life will people cleave,

me, and so before I leave,

I say: Goodbye”



At the sound of familiar and supportive applause, Joseph sat, smiled and absorbed every last word from his fellow poets. Each word, each poet that spoke felt like a knife driven into his gut. Each one had something to say, some message to pass on, and yet locked away here the poets were looked down on by society. Despite the derision poured on them by the masses, here in this room each and every month was created a brave world. It was a world in which wrongs were righted, messages of hope and inspiration were the norm; most importantly this world was a place in which everyone had a place, and was respected.



The night drew to a close far quicker than normal and one by one people made their ways home or toward other ale-houses that would welcome them. Joseph, who was usually the first to take his leave, was, on this night the very last to leave. He wanted, no, he had needed to watch everyone else leave first. With heavy heart and having told no-one of his situation Joseph made his way in to the misty sea air. He knew the streets, alleys and entry-ways of the area well and had made his way home many times and yet on this night it took Joseph far longer than normal. As he walked Joseph’s mind was strangely quiet, no ideas or rhymes were willing to trespass on the memory of that evening.



With the icy air biting into his fingers Joseph opened the door to his ram-shackle house and moved immediately to his chair. The impressions in the chair, left by years of nocturnal writing, felt warm and safe. Easily he slipped into the chair and let his body fall into a state of peaceful relaxation. Joseph moved his eyes to the candle. He had not lit it once since that night, no word had he put on paper. Joseph knew that lighting it tonight would be as futile as trying to stop the passage of time. His creative spirits had departed on the night he last lit the candle, he had nothing to say, nothing to write. Instead Joseph simply let the black of night envelop him.



Sleep would take him soon, and the paper would stay blank.