Hey Dad!
I have finished writing and editing my alternate ending to August Heat by William Fryer Harvey. If you haven’t read the story, our few followers, I will provide a link to the full story. It was published in 1910, so the wording is different from what we’re used to today.
August Heat is about James, an artist, and Mr. Atkinson a sculptor. On a hot August day, James drew a picture of a man given the “guilty” verdict. He went out and encountered the same man in his picture, Mr. Atkinson, in his house. It turns out that Mr. Atkinson had sculpted a gravestone with James’s name, his date of birth, and today’s date as the day he died. When they saw what each other made, they became afraid, and by the time James had to go home, Mr. Atkinson said that he could die out there, so they agreed that James would stay until midnight that night. What follows is my alternate ending.
It is enough to send a man mad.
I might as well get some sleep, for it is quite late. I laid on the bed in the corner, listening as Mr. Atkinson fixed the table leg. The hammer made a dull thump as it hit the wooden leg, then a sharp ting when it hit the metal strip. Thump, ting, ting.
Perhaps I could draw something.
I got up and walked back to the desk where Mr. Atkinson was working and asked for a couple of sheets of paper. He walked to a nearby cabinet and took out a small bundle. I sat back down on the bed and Mr. Atkinson went back to work. My hand moved across the page, making meaningless lines and shapes. After a few useless doodles, I decided to draw something simple. I asked Mr. Atkinson and he suggested that I draw a cat. It was the last piece of paper and a cat was simple…
I began to sketch. It didn’t take long, and I finished a rough sketch in a matter of minutes. It was of a cat, chasing it’s own tail. I didn’t realize that Mr. Atkinson was standing next to me.
“That’s quite the piece of art,” he said.
I jumped, startled. “I didn’t realize that you were there.”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” he replied.
“It’s fine.” I glanced at the table. The crack in the leg was patched up with a strip of metal. I walked over to it and pushed on the top. It didn’t creak, even when I put most of my weight on it.
“That’s nice mending you did,” I complimented. Then I remembered.
“Do you happen to have the time?” I asked.
“No, but you can ask my wife.”
I went upstairs, where Mrs. Atkinson sat in the kitchen. She was knitting what seemed to be a scarf. Looking up from her work, she smiled at me.
“Do have the time?”
“I do, actually.” She stood up and walked towards me. Something glinted in her hand. I backed up, hitting a wall. She proceeded to stab me in the gut. I collapsed onto the floor, my vision blurred around the edges.
“It’s eleven fifty-nine,” she whispered.
Hey Sam! ~ Hey Dad! 