HEMLOCK © 2012, David Alan Dickens During my humble beginnings as an aspiring author, threadbare in everything but artistic vision, and sown together with a like-minded group of famished artists, I was intrigued to eventually find myself in the presence of a rather interesting fellow author, someone with a sharp pen, competitive nature, brassy exterior, and someone who helped maximize my writing potential by the mere threat of besting me at this beloved art. Indeed, tedious, at best, was this, dare I say, friendship? My literary adversary was a woman by the name of Margaret Hillsworth, though I later came to learn that Margaret liked to be called Hemlock. Clad in streaks independence, as a tiger bears its stripes, and possessing an ironclad grasp of prose, Margaret was one who gained the ears of all. Ms. Hemlock lived in an apartment adjacent mine and, each having discovered the other’s dream of literary acclaim, our sheer proximity promised contention on a daily basis. It wasn’t long before I obtained several excerpts of Hemlock’s writing from dual-associates, and there was never any doubt in my mind that Margaret could write. Her mind was lucid and quick, she could form reason from the abstract, and her words flowed like honey. Like myself, Ms. Hillsworth, aka Hemlock, was a dedicated author, committed to crafting the finest prose she could weave, and she crafted often. It was only during her writing ‘breaks’ that we met, either in the elevator or in the stairwell, the nearby coffee shop or in the parking lot, always coming or going. Our animosity, however, though pointed, actually contained an undercurrent of mutual respect and, if I dare say, admiration. One artist recognizes another; and although neither of us had yet been crowned with poetic laureate, we each knew we were from the same wolf-pack, that of struggling (and adamantly committed) artist. A year had passed and neither Hemlock nor myself dared visit the residence of the other. We seemed comfortable with our barricaded acquaintancy, satisfied with our curt and succinct relationship. But on a chilly November evening, and following a promising letter from a literary agent (as well as few glasses of bourbon), a burning curiosity saw me gazing down the hallway at Hemlocks door. Wearing only my socks, I stalked silently toward her apartment, keeping the presence of mind to avoid even her peephole. If she knew I was thinking of her, it might afford emotional leverage, a small victory of sorts. Having reached the threshold of her apartment, I stared at the door, at the tiny brass-knocker, half expecting Jacob Marley to materialize: Scrooge!
Posted on: Sun, 30 Mar 2014 02:20:12 +0000