His Favourites
opening excerpt
Chaos crept its way into Arthur Burke’s life. The commotion began slowly, much like a long distance runner who knows a sprint is around the bend. It’s exhausting. Sometimes he holds his breath and counts silently in his head. Other days he pounds his fist against his head.
“You stinking office,” he snarls from behind yellowed teeth. “I hate you.”
Every corner of his headquarters is cluttered. Some stacks are covered in dust, while others topple over in disarray. He gave up years ago organizing the mess. Fate body-slammed him repeatedly and laughed in his face. He doesn’t recall shutting the door tight but it’s rare he tiptoes inside to view the collection. Arthur assumes the steel cabinets, holding all his secrets are fire resistant. Impregnable. He’s positive his stash is more valuable than the art at the Smithsonian. His wife frequently kisses his brow and says, “There’s treasure inside. I’ve seen it.”
On any random day, he tugs the handles, kicks the frigging lower drawer, and curses like a farmer destroyed by drought. No luck. The damn contents are locked: unavailable and off limits. What was the point of owning so much stuff if he couldn’t access it?
He’s tired. So tired. Arthur’s thinned hair falls in wisps across his creased forehead. He scratches his coarse beard. The guy who greets him in the mirror isn’t the handsome man who once lassoed a rogue horse and melted girls’ hearts. Steely eyes stare back as if mocking, ‘Go ahead - get something right today.’ Most mornings he has no agenda. No place to go. No place to hide. The screen door clangs. He parks himself on the front porch. His wooden chair is peeling. Arthur insists that if you look closely at the armrest, the weathered wood depicts an image of Jesus. It’s sacred.
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