John

He took his glasses off, with both hands, and placed them gently on the desk. He closed his eyes for a moment. the window was not completely shut and the papers on the desk stirred in the faint draught. He stretched his arms above his head, and looked about him, trying to find his pen among the books and papers in front of him. ‘Blind,’ he said “Blind eyes.’ But it was easier to write without his glasses. He had only to bend very close to the paper. That close, his handwriting seemed like someone else’s. He frowned. The pen was gone. Behind that pile of books? He stretched over, starting to stand up. And managed to knock the books over and almost crush his glasses with his elbow.

Taped to the wall over the desk was a large black-and -white photograph he had once cut out of a magazine, of an old woman’s face, The photograph was somewhat blurred, but the old woman’s eyes at the center were clear and bright. that was The only picture on the wall above the desk, though there were other pieces of paper stuck there with things written on them. Someone who he didn’t know very well had once asked him if he didn’t feel uncomfortable writing with that face staring down at him. He had leant back in his chair, looked over at his questioner, and then looked up at the photograph

‘I work better when I’m being watched,’ he had replied, quietly. And for all; he knew it was the truth.

He had finally written something, in large letters on a page torn from an old notebook:

‘I am the corrupter of words.’ He was staring at the sentence now, reading it over and over, trying to decide if he should tape it to the wall in front of him, if it was true enough. He studied the shapes of the letters, the colour of the ink. Then he looked away and sighed. He wished he could think it insignificant. He turned and searched for something else to look at. His eves fell on a stain on the rug. He stared at it for a while; then he smiled and turned back to his piece of paper, He took up his pen and, writing carefully, added a second line: ‘And I am the redeemer of words.’ Still smiling, he held up what he had written and read it over. The smile slowly left his face. He lowered the paper and looked straight ahead.

Then, abruptly, he crumpled it into a ball and dropped it on the desk.

Nicholas Laughlin