The Word
Copyright © Peter MacDougall, all rights reserved
The Word is a 1750 word speculative fiction story . It is originally from an idea inspired by David New, author and editor. The colour illustration accompanied the published story in E-scape. It was painted using a Wacom tablet and Corel PhotoPaint! with the background portrait of Mjhabharata coming from Poser. The black and white illustration was a quick sketch featuring Stanislaw and the Tower of Babel.
The Word was published by E-scape In the Fall/Halloween 1998 issue (10).
Part I
"In the beginning..." John 1:1
Only one word went through Piotr Andreyvich’s mind as he stared at his latest debacle.
He could see Doctor Gregor Stanislaw had been drinking determinedly. The pub had barely opened an hour ago for the lunch crowd and already the bottle in front of Stanislaw was half empty. The fresh label torn from the top sat just askance his glass, ignored where it fell.
No-one had warned him Doctor Stanislaw was a drunkard. It was no surprise to Piotr if he was; he knew tenured academics like Stanislaw quietly collected life’s little larcenies as they got older. Still, he had looked so sober in the newspaper photographs.
Piotr swore under his breath and thought of leaving. However, something about the way Stanislaw drank bothered him. Piotr watched as Doctor Stanislaw shot one glassful down, winced, coughed, and filled his glass again. Stanislaw drank like a parched man drinking his own piss.
Piotr took out a half-crushed pack of cigarettes from his back pocket while he watched Stanislaw drown himself and wondered what he was going to do. He tapped the pack impatiently then dug the last cigarette out. He looked up as he put it to his lips and noticed the bartender looking at him, frowning. The bartender pointed at the "No Smoking" sign. Piotr reluctantly slid the cigarette out of his mouth.
He crumpled the empty cigarette pack and jettisoned it into the garbage as he walked to the professor’s table.
A single light was centered on the tabletop where Stanislaw sat, highlighting the whiskey-filled glass that he held clasped in both hands. He did not even look up when Piotr pulled up a chair and sat down across from him.
"Doctor Stanislaw?"
The old man said nothing. He was a man in his fifties, but up-close Piotr could see that time and trial had stolen extra years and left him appearing more than twenty older.
"Doctor Stanislaw?" Piotr tried again.
"Yes," Stanislaw finally replied.
"I am Piotr Andreyvich. I am doing an article..."
"A reporter? Not CIA, KGB, or CSS?" He punctated the syllables as he spoke. "Just S.O.B. and S.O.L.?"
