Issue 9 - Gold Dust magazine

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The Anchor House [cont’d] cemetery. All the dates were recent. "Jesus. How could a place this barren have this many kids?" Stone wondered how he could get out of here. Maybe if he promised to be a better doctor. Or patch things up with his ex-wife. Or quit drinking. "Is this a rehab clinic?" he asked out loud. "But you didn't hear it from me," came the response. Stone spun around to see a small boy emerging from behind a gravestone. "Jesus, you scared me," said Stone. The boy, who looked to be about eight years old, wore a big smile. "You're not Dory." "Who?" "You're the one I hear singing. Do you live around here?" asked Stone. He was delighted to have someone to talk to. "I'm just visiting," said the boy. They considered each other for a long time. "I'm Dr. Stone. What's your name?" Stone finally asked. "I'm here to see you," said the boy simply. "You're the second person here who's told me that," said Stone. Could the boy have known Dory? "Where are we?" asked Stone. "Right here," the boy said without a note of condescension. Stone knew he wasn't going to get anywhere with straight questions. It was as if they had passed an ordinance here that banned logic. "Beautiful, huh?" said the boy. The boy looked straight ahead, dreamy-eyed. His whole life stretched out ahead of him. Stone had seen it hundreds of times but it never failed to move him. Maybe because Stone's life had taken so many detours. Maybe it was the look of all those parents dressed in black. Stone finally asked, "So, where is everyone?" "That, I'll have to show you." The boy led Stone back into the Anchor House and up the stairs. As they passed the open guest rooms with the moving boxes, the boy said, "They're all getting their pasts in order." "Who is?" asked Stone. They arrived at Stone's room. The boy opened the door, motioning Stone to follow. Stone couldn't believe it. His room was filled with the same moving boxes and filing cabinets. "Have fun," said the boy, handing Stone a metal tool. "You have your work cut out for you." The boy closed the door behind him. The statue this time: Man, Flabbergasted, Holding Box Cutter. Stone's room had been purged of loneliness. Maybe he would see the boy later. But right now, he had these boxes. Stone called the front desk but there was only a dial tone. He spoke into the phone anyway. "Room service, could you send up a case of whiskey, stat?" The boxes and file cabinets all stared impatiently at Stone. He opened the box closest to him. It was filled with dozens of bottles of Stone's favourite whiskey. "Well, I guess it's not a rehab," he said. He opened the first bottle unsentimentally and killed it. When his nerves steadied, he opened the second box. It contained every report card he had ever received and every homework assignment he ever worked on. The next box held every yearbook and various other school memorabilia. One box contained all the t-shirts that he had ever loved as a kid. Another was filled with photographs of every girlfriend and fraternity brother he had known. Another, impossibly, contained every blueberry pie he had ever eaten. They were still warm. The room seemed to have grown exponentially in size. There were hundreds of boxes. He took his time and went through each blessed one. One box was filled entirely with every sand castle that Stone had built as a child on vacation in Jamaica. Each box revealed some sacred memory or tactile experience long forgotten. Other boxes contained medical files, photos, and court documents of his former patients. Days went by. Maybe weeks. Then he got to the filing cabinets. The Master Index alone was hundreds of pages long. The Index had millions of entries like, The Number of Pairs of Socks You've Ever Worn (with accompanying pictures), Children You've Inadvertently Harmed and/or Killed, The Collective Number of Minutes You've Spent in Traffic (with accompanying video), Kisses You've Given and Forgotten, The Complete Compendium of Your Broken Promises and Their Outcome, and Coffee Consumed (in Mugs and Gallons). It went on and on. He noticed that everything in his life was catalogued, ledgered, accounted for, and cross-referenced to the boxes. Stone couldn't get enough. He fell into his past with the obsessive hunger of a homeless tapeworm. Months went by. Maybe years. Eventually, he came across a file of newspaper clippings. They were arranged in chronological order. One was Stone's wedding announcement. The next was Dory's birth announcement, two years later. The next clipping was eight years later: "Dr. Joshua Stone, Paediatrician, and his eightyear old son, Dory Stone, were involved in a car accident when they struck a bridge abutment. Dr. Stone and his son were admitted to Mid- County Hospital. Several weeks later, Dory Stone died from complications of 16 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk - Issue 9 - Winter 2007
infection associated with the accident. Dr. Stone remains in a coma." Stone took a deep breath and composed himself as best he could. The next clipping was dated six weeks later. "Dr. Stone, who awoke from his coma two days ago, had his medical license revoked amidst allegations…" Stone skipped ahead to the last clipping. The headline, dated three years later, read, "Dr. Joshua Stone Dies from Fall of Bridge." It was the second time at the Anchor House that Stone fainted. *** How are you today, sir? Very fine, I thank you. Stone awoke at 7:00 a.m. All the boxes and files were gone. In their place was a note reminding him of his appointment with GH at 10:00 a.m. Stone held his head tightly to avoid cranium spillage. He was too depressed to think about an appointment. Where were the boxes? Where was the boy singing outside his window? 9:30 a.m. His phone rang. "Hello," Stone answered in his foggy, morning grumble. "Just a reminder for your appointment," said the voice he connected to GH. Stone dragged himself to GH's office. "Dr. Stone, delighted you're here," said GH. GH looked the same although years must have passed since Stone last saw him. "Could I get a straight answer to one simple question?" "You were a healer," said GH, "sworn to help others. Namely, children. Especially your son. Shame, really. Now, we need your help." "My question…" said Stone. "GH?" asked GH. "Yes." "God's Husband." "What?" said Stone. "God's Husband," said GH, slowly, as if Stone was suddenly dense. Or Guardian of Hell, if you prefer. Two sides of a coin," said GH. Stone stared out the window and swore he could see the seasons changing. "I don't know what you want," said Stone finally. "Sure you do." GH walked to the wall of children's pictures. "My wife, as you can imagine, works full-time. Very busy schedule. Especially around the holidays. I stay home and take care of the children. I see the world through their eyes. Sometimes, it does lead to a distorted view. Makes me think that everything's fine with the world. Most people act adoringly to children. So, when that view is damaged, well, it's most disturbing." "God's Husband," said Stone softly. "Do you believe in heaven and hell, Dr. Stone?" asked GH, sitting down behind the large desk. "I used to." "Exactly. Because there is no heaven and hell. There's only your room in the Anchor House and what you make of it. Most people never leave their room, so obsessed are they with their boxes. For some, the boxes are heaven and for others they are hell. But ultimately, it's just their room." "I want to see Dory," said Stone. "He's our son now," said GH coldly. "You were supposed to take care of him." He pointed to the wall of pictures. "You were supposed to take care of them." "But I was in a coma when he died. I couldn't do anything," said Stone, closing his eyes to push back the tears. Stone heard a voice. "Why, Daddy?" www.golddustmagazine.co.uk - Issue 9 - Winter 2007 The Anchor House [cont’d] Stone opened his eyes. "Wait. It wasn't my fault." "I've seen the parents' faces when they got the news that their children were dead. I've seen your exwife's face," said GH. "Fuck you," screamed Stone to the black void of GH's eyes. Weren't his eyes blue a moment ago? Everything in this house was fluid. "I'm curious," said GH, "was that your general attitude when you fell off that bridge?" "What?" asked Stone. "Just three seconds ago. That's been the length of your stay at the Anchor House. We were looking forward to your stay when Dory died but you weren't ready then. You weren't finished damaging everything. You kept on drinking and kept misdiagnosing your patients. Well, your bill's come due." "I don't know anything about the others. It wasn't my fault." "Dory needs to know it was you. He can't move on." "He blames himself?" asked Stone. "Set him straight." "But, I didn't…" "Suit yourself," said GH, "You were right before. This is a sort of rehab centre. You think time matters here? Your liver is hanging off a branch twenty feet away from your mangled body. Take all the time you want." Stone sulked back to his room. His boxes were there to greet him. There was just him and his boxes. His past. His untainted past. Anything but the loneliness. Anything but the truth. The last statue: Man in Denial. He opened the first box and smiled. Run away. Run away. Gold Dust 17
Page 3 and 4: Gold Dust Gold Dust team Prose Edit
Page 5 and 6: The Beauty That’s In Me - page 40
Page 7 and 8: tions: 'APRIL 13. An extraordinary
Page 9 and 10: own life, and even a faint residual
Page 11 and 12: emaining people in your sphere of i
Page 13 and 14: means of a cushion-throwing game, w
Page 15 and 16: Short story Religion and Politics A
Page 17: For a moment, Stone just stared at
Page 21 and 22: a lot, as I've never seen Sarah wit
Page 23 and 24: they operate. People who want thing
Page 25 and 26: their misery. "Bastards," Barnaby s
Page 27 and 28: Short story Poem A Squadron Leader
Page 29 and 30: certain that I was not witnessed, a
Page 31 and 32: Short story JS BACH IN VENICE A con
Page 33 and 34: made for the back, where Jess lifte
Page 35 and 36: - Jess heard a rumble, like a truck
Page 37 and 38: tions. Such as love. Could it be? W
Page 39 and 40: She was eight months pregnant with
Page 41 and 42: malice, free from hate. She spoke s
Page 43 and 44: That's right Lucille, cry your path
Page 45 and 46: down to apply her usual comforting
Page 47 and 48: AUTUMN'S COMING (They whisper, as i
Page 49 and 50: £10 STAR POEM CONTEST POETRY COMPE
Page 51 and 52: ‘been chosen for its power to lif
Page 53 and 54: Writing competitions Grace Dieu Wri
Page 55 and 56: night oil after day-jobs or putting
Page 57 and 58: years with the world's largest news
Page 59 and 60: would get back to it once I had got
Page 61 and 62: GIV: I could get squashed by a truc
Page 63 and 64: ut if work is clearly laid out and
Page 65 and 66: philosophical, surreal. Nothing pol
Page 67 and 68: Contributors [cont’d] Louise Cyph
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Final Word... "Most writers can wri
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Issue 9 - Gold Dust magazine

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