The letter came in a simple brown envelope and smelled slightly of rotten lumber and a floral women's perfume.
"My Dear Dr. Hoffman," the letter began:
However, Hoffman remembered her more for the mad glimmer in her eyes when he talked about burning peasant huts in a geometric pattern, and for the way the light glistened off the section of exposed cranium above her left temple. Truly, Hoffman had never seen a more enchanting creature. He was more than flattered to accept her offer, and so he rung for his butler, Shambles.
The hulking brute dragged himself in on his wide, hairy knuckles. Shambles had been one of the doctor's first successful experiments in bringing dead tissue to life - he stitched Shambles together from the corpse of a large felon and some bits of dog he had found in the roadway. Although Shambles's days of enforcing the good doctor's will on a terrified countryside were long gone, the doctor still looked fondly on his oldest and dearest servant.
"Have you ever felt lonely, Shambles?" the doctor asked.
Shambles shook his head, his basset ears flopping from side to side. "I don't think so, sir."
"Imagine, if you can," the doctor said, "that, after a long day of toiling in the Gorgon Gardens, pulling weeds and dusting off statues, you went home and had someone there waiting for you."
Shambles nodded enthusiastically. "I pull a knife and run them through, just, like we did in Prague." He jerked the doctor's letter opener from the table and swung his arms to demonstrate.
"No, Shambles," the doctor said. "I mean someone you want to be there. A gentle, kindly someone. A wife, perhaps."
"Oh," Shambles said. He clenched his eyes shut and bit his lip. "Okay. I see it now."
"Now, imagine that person is suddenly gone."
Shambles peeked through one eye. "Did the intruder stab her?"
"No," the doctor said with a paternalistic smile. "She just left."
Shambles closed his eye again. It shot back open. "Is she coming back?"
The doctor shook his head.
"Am I'm sad?"
"Yes, Shambles," Hoffman said. "That's what it's like to be lonely."
"That's bad," Shambles said. "Who wants to be lonely?"
"Now," Hoffman said, idly rubbing the paper of the note between his fingers, "imagine that you had a chance to end that loneliness."
A small bead of sweat dripped down from Shambles's brow. His eyes snapped open and he frowned. "No good," he said. "Imagining is too hard."
Hoffman sighed. "Something less abstract, then." He stood up and walked around the table. "Imagine that your wife came back."
"You just said she wouldn't come back!" Shambles whimpered. "Now I have to re-imagine everything else from the beginning!"
"Never mind that," Hoffman snapped. He felt his temper slipping out of control. "It's a new wife, then."
"What's she look like?"
"Does it matter?"
"How can I imagine her if I don't know what she looks like?"
"The same as you last wife, then."
"Is she a twin?"
"No, a new woman."
"But she looks like the old one?"
"Yes."
"Where did she come from?"
"I don't know. Somewhere nice."
"How can I trust her if I don't know where she comes from?"
"I made her, all right?!"
"You can do that?"
"Of course I can!"
"And she looks just like the wife I imagined?"
"Exactly the same."
"And smells the same, too?"
"Why not?"
"And you would make he for me?"
"Easily done."
"Oh, thank you, Master!" Shambles bobbled up to the doctor and clasped his hand in gratitude.
"You are very... Wait, what?"
"When will she be ready?"
"Shambles, I think you misunderstood me..." The doctor clawed vainly to get a word in.
"I never have to be lonely again! Thank you, kind master!"
Somehow, this conversation had taken just the wrong turn. Hoffman sighed in surrender.
"I suppose I'll have some time this weekend."
Shambles shouted with joy and licked the doctor's hands. "How can I express my thanks, dear master?"
Hoffman absently toweled his hands off with the note from Emilia Bethelstein. When he noticed what it was, he gave it to Shambles. "Just send a response to this request that I will be unable to attend. I'll be busy," he said, his lip twisted into a sneer, "with work."
Shambles gave a short bow, already halfway turned around to leave the room. On his way out, he kept as high as his massive size would allow him and clicked his heels together two inches above the floor.
Hoffman sank down in his chair with a sigh. For a moment, he thought on Emilia, and he felt a twinge of longing as he imagined staring into her cranial dome again. Thoughts of work soon swarmed into his mind, and, without even registering a change in temperament, he began to sketch wildly on a notepad.
"Let's see," he said, "I'll need to find the body of a tightrope walker and a poodle..."
* - That's "Despotic Enclave of Monarchs and Orders Nefarious," for those not familiar with the international fraternities of those villainously inclined.
"My Dear Dr. Hoffman," the letter began:
I hope this letter finds you well. I have often thought of our conversation that night at the D.E.M.O.N.* convention. I have spent many long hours thinking over your theories on the long-term benefits of peasant suppression, and I find myself desperate to know more. I would be very much interested in continuing our discussion at my chateau in Burblebank Swamp next weekend.Dr. Ivan Hoffman leaned back in his chair and grinned, his lips parting wide to reveal a row of paper-colored teeth. Oh, he remembered Emilia - a woman who many thought to be far too young to rule even a small village. Already, though, the bulk of the mad scientist community accepted her for her radical yet efficacious means of splicing plant and animals tissue.
Aching to hear from you again,
Dr. Emilia Bethelstein
However, Hoffman remembered her more for the mad glimmer in her eyes when he talked about burning peasant huts in a geometric pattern, and for the way the light glistened off the section of exposed cranium above her left temple. Truly, Hoffman had never seen a more enchanting creature. He was more than flattered to accept her offer, and so he rung for his butler, Shambles.
The hulking brute dragged himself in on his wide, hairy knuckles. Shambles had been one of the doctor's first successful experiments in bringing dead tissue to life - he stitched Shambles together from the corpse of a large felon and some bits of dog he had found in the roadway. Although Shambles's days of enforcing the good doctor's will on a terrified countryside were long gone, the doctor still looked fondly on his oldest and dearest servant.
"Have you ever felt lonely, Shambles?" the doctor asked.
Shambles shook his head, his basset ears flopping from side to side. "I don't think so, sir."
"Imagine, if you can," the doctor said, "that, after a long day of toiling in the Gorgon Gardens, pulling weeds and dusting off statues, you went home and had someone there waiting for you."
Shambles nodded enthusiastically. "I pull a knife and run them through, just, like we did in Prague." He jerked the doctor's letter opener from the table and swung his arms to demonstrate.
"No, Shambles," the doctor said. "I mean someone you want to be there. A gentle, kindly someone. A wife, perhaps."
"Oh," Shambles said. He clenched his eyes shut and bit his lip. "Okay. I see it now."
"Now, imagine that person is suddenly gone."
Shambles peeked through one eye. "Did the intruder stab her?"
"No," the doctor said with a paternalistic smile. "She just left."
Shambles closed his eye again. It shot back open. "Is she coming back?"
The doctor shook his head.
"Am I'm sad?"
"Yes, Shambles," Hoffman said. "That's what it's like to be lonely."
"That's bad," Shambles said. "Who wants to be lonely?"
"Now," Hoffman said, idly rubbing the paper of the note between his fingers, "imagine that you had a chance to end that loneliness."
A small bead of sweat dripped down from Shambles's brow. His eyes snapped open and he frowned. "No good," he said. "Imagining is too hard."
Hoffman sighed. "Something less abstract, then." He stood up and walked around the table. "Imagine that your wife came back."
"You just said she wouldn't come back!" Shambles whimpered. "Now I have to re-imagine everything else from the beginning!"
"Never mind that," Hoffman snapped. He felt his temper slipping out of control. "It's a new wife, then."
"What's she look like?"
"Does it matter?"
"How can I imagine her if I don't know what she looks like?"
"The same as you last wife, then."
"Is she a twin?"
"No, a new woman."
"But she looks like the old one?"
"Yes."
"Where did she come from?"
"I don't know. Somewhere nice."
"How can I trust her if I don't know where she comes from?"
"I made her, all right?!"
"You can do that?"
"Of course I can!"
"And she looks just like the wife I imagined?"
"Exactly the same."
"And smells the same, too?"
"Why not?"
"And you would make he for me?"
"Easily done."
"Oh, thank you, Master!" Shambles bobbled up to the doctor and clasped his hand in gratitude.
"You are very... Wait, what?"
"When will she be ready?"
"Shambles, I think you misunderstood me..." The doctor clawed vainly to get a word in.
"I never have to be lonely again! Thank you, kind master!"
Somehow, this conversation had taken just the wrong turn. Hoffman sighed in surrender.
"I suppose I'll have some time this weekend."
Shambles shouted with joy and licked the doctor's hands. "How can I express my thanks, dear master?"
Hoffman absently toweled his hands off with the note from Emilia Bethelstein. When he noticed what it was, he gave it to Shambles. "Just send a response to this request that I will be unable to attend. I'll be busy," he said, his lip twisted into a sneer, "with work."
Shambles gave a short bow, already halfway turned around to leave the room. On his way out, he kept as high as his massive size would allow him and clicked his heels together two inches above the floor.
Hoffman sank down in his chair with a sigh. For a moment, he thought on Emilia, and he felt a twinge of longing as he imagined staring into her cranial dome again. Thoughts of work soon swarmed into his mind, and, without even registering a change in temperament, he began to sketch wildly on a notepad.
"Let's see," he said, "I'll need to find the body of a tightrope walker and a poodle..."
* - That's "Despotic Enclave of Monarchs and Orders Nefarious," for those not familiar with the international fraternities of those villainously inclined.
Okay, so I'm a little behind. But the point of a goal is something to work towards, not necessarily achieve right out the gate, right?
*cough*
I don't know that I'll be able to manage many short stories like this one. It took a lot longer than I was expecting, and the final product is not something I'm terribly satisfied with. I still think there's something here worth exploring... but this isn't it.
The picture was fun though. I've spent so much time fiddling around with my iPad that I'd nearly forgotten how much fun it is to draw with pen and paper. I'll be doing a few more pictures like this coming up, I think.
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