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JohnG

Thanks for letting me post this and I hope you enjoy it. It's a child's fairy tale for grown up's...

Skin Deep

Part 1
Arnold Biddy was a handsome man. A very handsome man. Some would say devilishly handsome, while others would say divinely handsome. His facial features alone were an outstanding example of the Golden Ratio – 1.61803; he was, therefore, a mathematically handsome man. You might think being the sole owner of such a delightful and becoming appearance would be nothing short of a blessing, but you would be very wrong. Arnold Biddy was so devastatingly handsome, nobody trusted him.
Wherever Arnold walked, sat or visited, he was treated with suspicion and disdain.
“Nobody can be that handsome, both inside and out,” sneered Miss Uff, the traffic warden, as she slapped a parking ticket onto Mr Boocock’s car.
“I’d wager my life savings that all that beauty is hiding a heart that’s blacker than a midnight tomb,” replied Mr Boocock, with all the spit and venom he could muster.
In actual fact, Arnold Biddy was a charming and captivating individual whose heart was golder than the morning sun and twice as warm to boot. He was kind to all and sundry with never a bad word to say. If he failed to save a soggy, stranded spider from a bath-watery end, this would aggrieve him for the remainder of the day. But nobody cared about that. For all of his benevolent and philanthropic deeds, they just couldn’t claw their way past the aesthetics of a man called Arnold Biddy.
As a child he never cried, never misbehaved or threw a tantrum. He ate his greens, washed between his toes, finished his homework and always said his prayers.
“That little devil is up to something,” his mother would hiss. “Watch your backs, that’s all I’ll say,” she would tell all of her friends. “Only God is perfect.”
Arnold always forgave his mother, as was his affable disposition. He tried to visit her as often as he could but, alas, he never got more than one foot across the threshold before a shoe or cup whistled passed his head.
“Get out! Get out! And take that sinful face with you,” she would bellow.
On one occasion Arnold even volunteered his time to help out at the local church – St Bartholomew’s Church for the Holiest of the Holy – assisting the altar boys during mass and polishing the chalice. Surely, he thought, helping out in the house of God would prove that I am a nice person and people might start to like me. No such luck. Father De’ath never took his one good eye off Arnold, and used to sprinkle Arnolds cassock with holy water every time he wore it. The congregation refused to take Holy Communion whenever Arnold was holding the tray, preferring to sit it out and hope for the best for a week.
Arnold decided it was time to take action. He had a bit of money put aside, saved up for a rainy day, and today it was pouring down. He was going to change his life forever.
He walked down to his local hospital, put his money on the table and said. “I want you to make me ugly!”
Within minutes, Arnold was thrown onto a trolley and wheeled down the corridor, crashing through the operating theatre doors.
My! Thought Arnold as the anaesthetic began to fade the world away. They certainly seem keen.

Part 2
The first thing Arnold saw as they peeled away the bandages was a row of faces; eyes wide with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The last of the bandages fell to the floor. The row of faces all took a step back and gasped in harmonic unison. A nurse put a hand over her mouth and retched.
“My God,” Said a tall, thin doctor. “What have we done?”
Someone passed a mirror to Arnold. Shaking, he lifted it up to his face. Gazing upon the reflection that stared back at him, he let out a small whimper and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he spoke slowly. “But… would you trust me? Do… do you like me?”
The Doctors and nurses looked at one another.
“Mr Biddy, I haven’t seen a face as unsightly as yours for many a year. But I don’t think I have ever seen a more dependable or staunch individual as the one who now stands before me. Are we all in agreement?”
There was a moment of mumbling, which dissolved into nodding and polite applause.
“Without a shadow of a doubt, Mr Biddy”
“I second the previous comments of my esteemed colleagues. Hurrah to you, Mr Biddy.”
Arnold was beside himself with joy. Standing at an open window he breathed in the evening air. “Finally, I have been accepted. Finally, I can join in.”
Arnold spent the next few days in hospital in a state of elation. He couldn’t wait to get out and about and make friends, have a cup of tea with his mother, perhaps even find love. His lifelong dream had come true.
There was, however, another feeling that seemed to pervade his body. It was an odd sort of feeling, one that he couldn’t quite place. He felt as though someone was there. Just around the corner, just behind the door, just there, in the shadows… and it was strangely familiar.
Friday arrived and Arnold was well enough to leave the hospital. The doctors and nurses gave him his pills and creams and sprays and wished him well for the future.
As he was leaving, Arnold saw an old man in a wheelchair trundling along the corridor. Just ahead of the old man was a lift shaft that was being repaired. The workmen fixing it were on a tea break. There was no one else around. Arnold was just about to warn the old man about his dangerous predicament when the odd feeling began to swirl around in his head. He looked at the frail old man, struggling with the wheels of his chair. Before he had time to think, Arnold marched over to the old man, grabbed the handles of his wheelchair and made a slight detour.
The old man looked up at Arnold from the bottom of the lift shaft, his body all twisted and mangled up. It was hard to see where he ended and his wheelchair began.
“Excuse me, son,” croaked the old man. “Can you please get some help? I appear to have fallen down this shaft.”
Arnold looked down at the old man, and then looked at his own hands – the hands responsible for this act. They no longer felt like his. He looked back at the old man who was now beginning to lose consciousness. “Yes, I will go and find some help right away. Don’t worry. You’re in the perfect place to have a fall.” Arnold smiled at the old man, turned, and walked out of the hospital, never talking to a soul. As he strolled down the street, he thought, “How strange. That sort of thing has never happened to me before.”

Part 3
The incident at the hospital, understandably, irked Arnold somewhat. He mulled it over. “I wonder if this sort of thing is normal after an operation such as mine,” He thought. “Perhaps a few mouthfuls of the appropriate medicines and I’ll be absolutely fine.” He decided to pay a visit to Doctor Puce.
Doctor Puce literally dragged Arnold into his house.
“Arnold! Arnold Biddy! What a pleasant surprise to see you. Come in. Make yourself at home.”
For all of Arnold’s life, Doctor Puce had, half-heartedly, treated all of his ailments. But just like the rest, Doctor Puce never trusted Arnold, always believing that this extremely handsome individual was just feigning his chicken pox, pretending a broken wrist or going into anaphylactic shock just to waste time. But now, he couldn’t be welcoming enough. Arnold’s surgery was nothing short of miraculous.
“What can I do for you on this fine evening?” boomed Doctor Puce.
“Well,” said Arnold. “Ever since I had my face changed things have been fantastic. People like me and, most importantly, they trust me.”
Doctor Puce nodded and made some notes.
“The problem is – I have strange feelings that make me…” Arnold decided against telling Doctor Puce about the incident in the hospital. “Make me think about doing bad things,” he finished in a whisper.
Doctor Puce hummed in agreement and said. “Completely normal, my dear boy. Surgery of this kind can be quite traumatic. What you are experiencing is a phenomena known to the medical world as ‘Surgicallogicaly acquired brain and mind problem syndrome’. It’s common and easily treated. There’s a clinic just down the road that specialises in it.” Doctor Puce began to rummage amongst his textbooks. “I think I have a book on this very problem. Just bear with me.”
As Doctor Puce rummaged, Arnold thought he saw someone dash into the kitchen. Unsure of what he might have seen, he followed.
“Ah! Here it is,” boomed Doctor Puce “The Big Medical Book of Brain and Mind Problems.” He turned around to see Arnold stood exactly where he always was. Tapping the front cover he said. “This book will tell us what we want to know.” He found the contents page and, studying it, began to pace around the hearthrug. “Hmmm. Bad thoughts. Let me see.”
The large antique mirror above the fireplace gave Arnold a good vantage point to see the look of surprise on Doctor Puce’s face as the bread knife slid through his skull and lodged deep in his brain. It was a look of a man who had been bothered by a particularly perplexing question all of his life and, in a flash of revelation, the answer had, all of a sudden, been revealed to him.
Doctor Puce’s body fell to the floor.
“Who on earth keeps doing that?” thought Arnold. “It appears to be me but it doesn’t feel like me.”
Arnold walked towards the mirror, wiped the blood off his face and stared into his eyes. “Do I know you? You seem strangely familiar.” He scanned the room. “What shall I do now?” In the corner was a tool bag. Doctor Puce had been hanging a door and putting up shelves. Arnold opened the tool bag. Inside he saw a pair of pliers, a drill, some rope and a bow saw. He immediately knew what he had to do next: wait for Mrs Puce.

Part 4
Arnold left the Puces’ house and trundled off down the road. He had decided to do the right thing for Doctor and Mrs Puce by kindly laying their bodies to rest in the back garden; well, the parts of them he could scoop up.
He felt slightly disappointed by his visit to Doctor Puce. He was no closer to an answer for his irksome predicament. But for now he decided to put it to the back of his mind, as it was, after all, a beautiful day. The sun shone, the birds sang, the dogs barked, the children played. His nursery school teacher, Miss Regalis, used to call days like today ‘the beam of God’s smile.’
Arnold stopped his legs from walking, closed his eyes and stretched his mouth to smile. “Of course!” He bellowed. “Of course, of course, of course, of course. God… God can help me find an answer to my dilemma.” He began to run as though the strength of his legs had increased twenty-fold. He shouted at the top of his voice, “Father De’ath will help me. He would never turn away a member of his flock, and certainly not one whose troubles were so, well, so peculiar.”

The spires of St Bartholomew’s Church for the Holiest of the Holy had always filled Arnold with a sense of peace. They used to help him forget the sadness one feels when the whispers of a crowd burn deep into their ears. He would imagine himself sitting and leaning against the tallest spire – the ‘dreaming spire’, as he used to call it – watching all of the whisperers talking and smiling and laughing, unaware of him.
The large oak doors opened with a welcoming creak, just as they had done so many years ago.
Father De’ath stood by the font, piling the hymnbooks in a neat ordered fashion with all the spines facing outward. He had yet to see Arnold, what with his good eye being on the far side of his grey, balding head. Arnold dipped his hand into the holy water and made the Sign of the Cross; Father De’ath shuddered and quickly turned his head towards Arnold. His good eye squinted.
“Well, well, well. I’ve never been a doubting Thomas, but this cannot be.” He approached Arnold. “Arnold Biddy, as I live, breathe and pray.”
Arnold bowed his head slightly and whispered, “Father De’ath. Am I welcome?”
“As a child you had the face of the most beautiful angel in all of heaven. But where there was light there must have been dark.” He placed his hands on Arnold’s cheeks. “Now, you have the face of Baphomet, but with the light that shone from the five wounds of Christ, glowing in your soul and blinding the eye of an old fool of God. Of course you are welcome.”
He grabbed Arnold by the arm and led him through the pews. As they reached the altar, they both genuflected and entered the Sacristy.
“So, Arnold Biddy, what can I do for you, after all these years?”
Arnold had thought long and hard about what to say to father De’ath. He decided to keep it simple, to begin with.
“How are the flock keeping, Father? Still pious?”
“Oh, Arnold. They are closer to God than they have ever been. Your dear old Mother’s singing of Hosanna matches the Angel Gabriel himself. You must come, join us this very evening. We are having a special prayer night. We have had some sad, sad news. Old Mr Kennedy has had the most unfortunate accident, today, at the hospital.” He pulled Arnold’s head closer to his and whispered. “When they found him he was bound and twisted within his wheelchair at the bottom of a lift shaft. Man and machine had become one.” He closed his one, good eye, shook his head and let out a sigh that wheezed and squeaked. “That poor, poor man. We shall pray for his soul, now, hmm?”
There was a moment’s silence. Arnold’s eyes were transfixed on the mumbling lips of the priest. Without breaking his gaze, Arnold reached out to his left. The first thing he felt was brass, smooth and metallic; a candlestick, contoured in such a fashion that, if you placed two alongside each other you would see twin faces.
Arnold gripped the candlestick and raised it above his head.
Father De’ath opened his eyes and stared straight at Arnold.
“Ah! You are so keen to help, Arnold Biddy,” boomed Father De’ath as he grabbed the candlestick from Arnold and began to, rather clumsily, thrust a candle into it. “You shall be a wonderful member of this church. Your contribution will be akin to that of John the Baptist himself.” He lit the candle. “Come, follow me; I have something to show you.”
Father De’ath led Arnold down a windy, creaky staircase with a splintered banister that had been varnished against the grain. The air smelt like a catacomb.
As they reached the bottom, Arnold began to sing to himself in a whisper. It was an old rhyme he had once heard in a dream as a child.
“I’ll sing you a song like an icy wind blows.”
“I’ll sing you a song that you’d wished you’d not known.”
“I’ll sing in the morning to make your heart weep.”
“I’ll sing in the evening ‘till you’d not want to sleep.”
“I’ll sing you my song through your children and wife.”
“I’ll sing you my song for the rest of your life.”
“And then when you’re dead and all on your own.”
“I’ll dig up your grave and sing to your bones.”

“What was that, my child?” said Father De’ath, turning to face Arnold
“Nothing, Father. Just a quiet prayer.”
“Good, good. God is listening always. He always… ah! Here it is!”
Father De’ath performed a sweeping motion with the lit candle into an alcove. It revealed an old, ornate baptismal font. Cobwebs hung from it like pretty lace curtains; cockroach and beetle carcasses adorned them like black, shiny buttons.
“This, Arnold Biddy, is where we first embraced you into God’s family. This font is where you were baptised. The water in this font is very possibly the same water used to anoint your head all those years ago. Only one more was baptised in this font and it was never used since.” Father De’ath looked abashed. He turned away from Arnold. “Eventually, the Bishop insisted we bring it down here. And here it stayed.” His voice trailed off.
“Am I still part of God’s family, Father?”
Father De’ath grabbed Arnold by his arms. “As it came to pass, your face had become so beautiful that it could only belong to the serpent.” These words he spat through clenched, charcoal coloured teeth. Saliva hung from his lips. He calmed himself. “But now, Arnold Biddy, The Holy Ghost’s flame flickers above your head. We welcome you, back into the arms of the Lord.” He turned and gestured towards the font. “We can baptise you once again. We can instil righteousness where for so long there has…”
Father De’ath’s final words were lost in a fizz of holy water. Arnold held the priests head under the water with such force he could hear the sound of crushing bone as Father De’ath’s nose collided against the bottom of the font. Blood clouded the water. Father De’ath stopped thrashing, started twitching, then fell still.
Arnold let go of Father De’ath’s head, and the body fell to the floor. He stood over the priest. Dipping his hand into the blood-drenched font he began to flick the crimson liquid onto the priest’s cold, contorted face “I baptise thee in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”
Arnold left St Bartholomew’s Church for the Holiest of the Holy with a modicum of contentedness and satiation. He had finally realised one of his desires. He had ventured onto the roof and sat next to the ‘dreaming spire’, and he had dreamed. There were no whisperers to watch at the moment, but he intended to return someday soon. For now, though, Father De’ath would be Arnold’s eyes and ears. As he walked through the gates of the church, he stopped, turned and raised his face. Perched upon the ‘dreaming spire’ was the head of Father De’ath. Arnold could hear the old priest’s voice clearly in his head, saying, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” Arnold bowed his head and crossed himself. “Thanks be to God.”

Part 5
Arnold slowly drowned in a deep well of melancholy. Something was not right. If the science of a medical man and the spiritual wisdom of an Earthly representative of God himself could not help poor, ugly but trustworthy Arnold Biddy, then who could? Who could possibly stem the tide, plug the dam, stitch up the wound and halt the ugliness?
“Mother can.”
Arnold froze. “Who said that?”

“Who can sit atop the stairs?”
“And keep her watch and wait and stare.”
“Till all the daemons spit and glare.”
“Mother can.”

Arnold spun on his heels, frantically looking from here to there for the whispery voice.

“Who can see beyond your fears?”
“Hears the wicked, then shield your ears.”
“Will dry your eyes but needs your tears.”
“Mother can.”

“Who can hide behind the veil?”
“Hide secret smiles each time you fail.”
“Who can gnash her teeth and wail?”
“Mother can.”

Arnold traced the hushed song to a small garden overgrown with bright yellow flowers. He brushed aside the foliage to reveal a blissful scene. A young woman dressed from head to toe in white, with long white hair and skin that was whiter still, stood, leaning over a rusty pram with large buckled wheels. She was speaking into the pram.
“My dear, sweet angels. Don’t ever worry about a thing ever in your life. No matter what the trial might be, no matter which devil from hell bears over your shoulder or hides within your shadow, I will always be nearby to mop your brow and tend to your bruises because a mothers love will never ever die. Never. Ever. Die.”
The words reverberated inside Arnold’s head, ricocheting from thought to thought. She gave me life; she fed me and kept me warm before she cast me out. Perhaps now she will provide me with the fortitude to banish this curse from my soul. Where science and spirituality failed, maybe a love that is entire and unconditional is the answer I am looking for.
“Mother,” Arnold whispered. “I’m coming home.”

Arnold’s mother hobbled to the door, muttering under her breath. “This had better be the Lord Jesus himself. Disturbing me while I pray.” She opened the door and immediately stumbled backwards.
“Mother.” Arnold stood there in all of his grotesque glory.
“Arnold?” coughed his mother. “What in the name of Saint Peter has happened to you? You… you look so vile, yet so divine. The flame of the devil has left you. Oh, praise be, praise be.” With tears in her eyes she embraced him with the passion only a mother knows.
She ushered him into the lounge.
“Sit, sit.”
Arnold sat on the chair he remembered sleeping on as a child; its comfort was still present.
His mother sat across from him, staring. Just staring.
“How are you keeping, mother? Well, I hope?”
His mother just kept on staring. Silent.
Arnold looked around the room. “It’s exactly as it always was.” He motioned towards a picture of a crying child. “I recall those eyes burning into my very soul as I tried to sleep. In fact on one occasion I found…”
“Mother can see all, Arnold,” she interrupted. Still staring.
“What can you see, mother?”
“To look at you, Arnold, I can see a light were there was once darkness. But deep inside you, I see a darkness where there once was light, and I have seen it once before.”
“I don’t follow you, Mother.” Arnold smiled a polite, innocent smile to disguise the flourishing lifelessness in his eyes. “I feel no darkness. On the contrary, I feel nothing short of jubilant to be able to sit here and converse with you after all these years, mother.”
His last word turned her blood cold. She stood and slowly shuffled over to a cabinet in the corner. Arnold remembered this cabinet as a child. He was never allowed to lay his hands on it, let alone open it. He was scolded on a regular basis if he so much as stood close to it. Arnold, having been an exceptional child, never once disobeyed his Mother.
He watched with trepidation as his mother removed a small cloth package. Her bony, arthritic fingers shook as she slowly unwrapped it.
“Do you think I was a good mother, Arnold? Was I fair?” She remained hunched over the package.
Arnold drew a breath to speak, but remained silent. Emptiness filled the room.
“An absence of words can say more than a lifetime of stories.” She turned to face him. “You spent your life shunned by those who should have loved and cared for you, mistrusted by those whose wisdom and knowledge should have shaped your life. But it was not always like that. You were once loved and cherished, as every child should be. Your beauty touched everyone’s life. All who surrounded you felt the blessing of a child named Arnold Biddy…” Her voice vanished into the air. “All except one.” She handed Arnold the contents of the package. It was a small folded picture frame. Arnold gently unfolded it.
Several moments passed as Arnold studied the photograph that he had revealed. A mask of consternation enshrouded his unsightly face.
“Who is this?” He never took his eyes from the picture. “I recognise the chair that I now sit on; I recognise myself, as a child, sitting on the chair; but I do not recognise the boy who sits beside me.” Arnold’s eyes darted upwards to look at his Mother. “Who is he?”
Arnolds Mother looked directly into Arnold’s eyes.
“He was your brother, Arnold. Your twin brother”

Part 6
Arnold exhaled sharply, as if an unseen fist had thwacked him in his belly. He stared, ashen-faced, at the picture. Time, audibly, creaked to a halt.
An uneasy laugh – his first all-day – gurgled in Arnolds throat.
“This cannot be true. A mistake, surely. Look at the faces. How can twins look so unlike one another? I mean, look at him. He looks so…”
“Ugly?”
Arnold looked up at his mother. She looked back at him, and then turned her gaze toward the window and the bright sun-drenched garden outside.
“Twins are not always identical. They can be born on the same day, or days apart. They can be born as one body. They can be born within one another.” She turned to face Arnold. “But they share a magical connection. When we enter this life on one of God’s sunbeams, most of us do it alone. Twins, however, share that journey. That is a bond of divine proportions.
“Ernest Biddy was your twin brother. He was an exceptionally ugly child. It caused people much disquiet to look in his direction. You were the beautiful one. Loved by all who knew you, fawned over by those who did not. Ernest was shunned, cast aside. He was always standing in your shadow. He became the unseen child that dwelled within your shadow. Forgotten by all, he disappeared. When? No one knows. The first I knew of his vanishing was on the eve of your sixteenth birthday; I found his skeleton swinging from a rope in the attic.”
Arnold jumped to his feet. The picture frame tumbled to the floor, cracking the glass, like a lightning bolt severing the face of the young Ernest Biddy.
“My God, mother!”
Arnolds mother began to talk faster.
“I felt the icy breath of the devil in that room. And I was to blame. We all had a share of the blame. Our veneration of you caused an innocent soul to be lost. I was paralysed with guilt, remorse, shame. What had we done? What should I do? I felt hag-ridden” She paused, took a long breath and continued. “But, nobody else knew. They had forgotten all about Ernest Biddy at the same time as I. Their lives continued like the suns path across the sky; unaltered. It was my cross to bear. And I had to bear it alone.
My conscience dragged me to the very edge of madness. I needed something to keep my balance, to stop me from plunging into the blackness of my stricken soul.” She pointed a crooked bony finger at him. “So I chose to blame you.”
Arnold fell back onto the chair, his gruesome face, wide-eyed and frozen.
“It seemed so right,” she continued. “After all, you had bewitched us all. Your shadow smothered poor, innocent Ernest, snuffing out his light before it had time to shine. So I began to detest you. I detested everything about you. I detested the adoration others bestowed upon you, so I set about changing their minds.” She bowed her head. “And change their minds I did.”
“It was you?” spluttered Arnold. “You are the reason I’ve spent so many years outcast from all around me?” He stared in disbelief.
She approached him and placed both hands on his face. They were coarse, cold and grainy. She spoke, now with a much softer voice, but one tinged with a deep sadness.
“But now I see I was wrong. I was a foolish old woman who cast aside my only sons. When I look at you now, I see the heart of Arnold Biddy and the face of Ernest Biddy. I have both of you back again.
Before today, all I had were memories, a photograph and a rhyme I found in Ernest’s bony fingers on that terrible evening.” She passed Arnold the cloth that had wrapped the photograph. “He must have written it before, well… you know. He dedicated it to you; his brother.”
Arnold took the cloth and unfolded it. Words were scrawled across it, handwritten by a child. Arnold read the first line and shuddered.

“I’ll sing you a song like an icy wind blows…”

A gust of wind suddenly blew through an open window, disturbing the curtain and allowing a shaft of sunlight to engulf Arnold and cast his shadow upon the wall. From the corner of his eye, Arnold swore he saw the figure of a small child hidden within the shadow. The wind dropped; the shadow faded. Arnold could read no further.
Finally, the answer unfolded itself. In ceasing to be the handsome and beguiling Arnold Biddy, he had ceased to be Arnold Biddy. He had moulded his features into those of his brother, Ernest Biddy, and inherited the tormented and vengeful soul that lay within; the child who had always dwelled in Arnold’s shadow.
“You look so sickly, child.” His mother said. “Follow me to the kitchen. I’ve made some fresh stew. Help me to throw some coal into the oven and we’ll warm it up.”
Arnold followed his mother into the kitchen in a trance. Dark circles appeared under his misshapen eyes.
“Here we are.” His mother approached the oven and opened the furnace doors. “It shouldn’t take long to become hot. It’s been simmering all day. Just shovel the coal on and I’ll wash some bowls.”
Arnold grabbed a shovel and began to throw coal into the oven’s furnace. A flame took hold.
“Would you like to come to the church with me tonight, Arnold?” His mother asked, her hands submerged in the suds filled sink. “Father De’ath told me that old Mr Kennedy had an unfortunate accident at the hospital. We can both pray that his soul has a peaceful journey into heaven.”
Arnold did not answer. He was in a frenzy, shovelling more and more coal into the oven. The flames rose higher and higher.
“I hope that Doctor and Mrs Puce will be there. They’re were supposed to visit me this very evening but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them.” She grabbed an old raggedy dishtowel. “I have a parcel for them, very important by the looks of it. Those two will be in pieces if they don’t pick it up today; very highly strung.”
Arnold was shovelling faster and faster. The furnace was blazing.
“Goodness me.” Shrieked his mother as she turned and saw the fire. “The oven does not need to be so hot. A small flame will suffice to warm the stew. This heat will burn it beyond all recognition.”
She hobbled over to the oven and opened the large iron doors. Inside the stew was bubbling and spitting. Heat immediately swamped the kitchen.
“Go and open the door, Arnold. Let the cool, evening air in.” She began to laugh. “Our Lord in heaven would burn his tongue on a meal as hot as…”
Arnold swung the shovel as hard as he could. His mother fell to the floor.

It wasn’t the loud clang of the oven’s iron doors that roused his mother from her stupor; it was the heat.
“Arnold, stop… what are you doing? For the love of God”
The roar of the flames swamped her desperate screams
Arnold peered through the little glass window in the oven door and watched his mother writhe and contort as she began to liquefy.
“It’s not Arnold anymore, dear mother. Welcome back your long lost son whose heart is as vile as his face. You cast me aside for Arnold then you cast Arnold aside for your own piece of mind. Your beloved God will not welcome you. You’d better become accustomed to this torment, as you will burn for the rest of eternity.”
The last thing Arnold Biddy’s mother saw before her eyes popped was the smiling face of Ernest Biddy. The last thing she heard before her ears melted shut was the embittered voice of Arnold Biddy.
“Beauty may only be skin deep, mother, but ugliness resides deep within the soul.”

THE END…

© John Gallagher 2007

Catnapper · Site Joined: 30 Jul 2007 Posts: 8898

What a brilliant story John, you're a very talented writer

It reminded me of an MR James type of horror/ghost story......in fact, I think it would make an excellent drama to be shown on tv like they've done with many MR James stories. You should sent an outline of it to a tv production company.

Do you prefer the horror/supernatural genre for your writing?

JohnG · Posted: Fri Jul 04, 2008 2:15 pm Post subject:

Thank you very much Cat, really appreciate that.
I love the horror genre as there is a massive scope for creativity, you can take it just about anywhere, but best of all it's the reactions that you can get from people, even when you see people wince or look shocked or horrified you know that you've done it right.
I'm currently having a crack at writing a script in the style of the old 60/70s gothic horrors such as the Hammer horrors/Theatre of Blood, similar to what Rob Zombie did with House of 1000 Corpses, very garish, gory but with tongue-in-cheek black humour.
With Skin Deep I thought it might work well as a play.
Cheers

Catnapper · Site Joined: 30 Jul 2007 Posts: 8898

You're welcome John

I actually set off intending to read just 1 or 2 sections....and ended up reading all 6

..... that shows how much I got involved in the story!

Skin Deep would be excellent as a play........it has a feel of the old Armchair Thriller or Tales of the Unexpected type progs. I hope we get to see it on tv one night!

Lucifer_666 · Site Joined: 27 Jul 2007 Posts: 12791

That was exellent John

I was the same I was only going to read one or two and continued....it has a kind of Grimm Fairytale feel to it too I thought...you could imagine it being done like a gothic fairytale horror
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Catnapper · Site Joined: 30 Jul 2007 Posts: 8898

Yeah a gothic fairytale horror sums it up just right Luc

How I said about Tales of the Unexpected/Armchair Thriller.......well they could do updated versions of those kind of shows, with a much darker feel to them....just like John's story

Lucifer_666 · Site Joined: 27 Jul 2007 Posts: 12791

Well funny you say that babe because I reckon if we were ever to seee Tales of the Unexpected or Armchair back they would be much more gothic and darker anyway so technically your not reallyt wrong there

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