novella excerpt: The Luminous Memories of Alexander Vile

The Luminous Memories of Alexander Vile, by Natasha Jones
The Luminous Memories of Alexander Vile, by Natasha Jones

The Luminous Memories
of Alexander Vile

by Natasha Jones

The Beginning of the End

This is the beginning of my vile story. It centres on a proud, life-long hero. He was no hero for ‘simpletons’ but he was mine. He was her hero too, Joanna’s. His wife and child he loved and lost in a flash, his passions escaped him like your positive thoughts will after reading this letter. What’s best to define tragedy? What if the subject of the tragedy was a tragic nightmare? What if you could only see those so precious to you in your nightmares? Would you then long for the pain to take the former pain away? So many questions but those are for the mind to make up. I’ve re-read this letter a thousand times, trying to best come up with a solution in my mind as to what his hopes and achievements were here. The tears are my own. Joanna won’t touch it, for she has gone too. If only he knew what she kept locked inside and the torture it took to keep it unknown from him. Here’s a letter from him to Dear Joanna, who you will find out about in due course.

To my dear Joanna,

This letter bares your name more than you will ever believe; you are the source of everything beneath my veins, the tangle of my broken twisted heart. Most importantly, you are the death of me. I love you Joanna. Eventually I reached the point of no return, where I had to answer the question: life or you? I couldn’t keep strangling both and losing you would be the loss of life itself. Forgive me if you grieve from this but know that you should continue in the same manner as you were prior to reviewing this. The ingenuity you hold fills my blood with proof that you will keep this unknown to the simpletons who enquire. They’ll never understand the complications of our working relationship; never fully acknowledge what we shared. Thinking of it, Joanna, neither will you. Dream your worst nightmare and my essence will be there, trying to rid you of your comfortable position, trying to make you bleed. You aren’t worthy of a poem or a song, you are worthy of anything that will degrade you. I always lie.

I trudged through the spoken thoughts, through the toothpaste smiles I held upon you, to reach the substantial amounts of evidence that I am best placed here; beside Shakespeare, beside Mozart, beside my only thoughts. Even being among you though, you’ll never compare. You are just a temporary transaction; you’re useless, nothing special, nothing. I always lie. I am not lying now, I am: you’ll have to distinguish. My pasted yells will trap you, my rugged beard will scratch you and my shrivelled hands will attach to you – for if we are what we aren’t, you are ugly, you are dead, and I was grinning. I never lie.

Although you were the downfall of me, you did revive me. You became the reason for my existence. For the months I lived with your extinction, I deserved less than was granted. Your optimism will pull her (the maid) through. She’s the only friend you’ll need for now; you’ll forget me as quickly as I’ve forgotten you. Pray, do not feel pain. I am relieved of mine now. I wish you to be a survivor and make a steady career and a good wife. All I ever wanted was to hold you. Please hold me now, whilst I dream of touching your face, and with my last few breaths I will be relieved of all agony. Pray, do not lie to me – I always lie. I’ll always know, if only you knew…. but you’ll never know what’s best for you, because the best never existed in my lifetime.

The tears shed: this horror still haunts me at night. Joanna put an end to it all, that afternoon. The heroine and the villain, the police and the criminals, the warrior and the surrendered. Say what you will. Joanna will be forgotten – he won’t. Introducing Alexander Vile…

Yours, sincerely, the Maid.

Home is what you make it


Home, the smell of fruit and cider fill the air around me. Oh what a delight! I couldn’t have wished for anything less tasteful. Here’s to you (whoever’s listening), have you ever wanted to be unknown: to clench the past by its backside and throttle the servants who stand in your way? In short: do you miss time? Actually, is it possible to miss time? We make our time relative to others.

I was gritting my teeth as I walked past such tremendously nasty smells from the passing orphanage. Disgusting. As if they had no homes. As if I didn’t come out the other side. There is no other side, only losers or winners. They shouldn’t be alive. These structures of sunset and wood-like bricks could have better use. They could, perhaps, if I were king. If….

A voice interrupted my thoughts. “Any coppers for a girl?”

“And what will you give?” I inquired, knowing full well that the only thing she was likely to part with was the plague. Her shrivelling hands filled me with gluttony: to rip the strands of clothing off of her, to take her back to my house, to creep her up the stairs. Her hand pressing hard against my rail, her imperfect skin caressing my bed sheets, her lips breathing hot air in my mouth, her pulse juxtaposed to mine, her eyes – BANG! I am so vexed! I would throw a curtain on her, I honestly would. It was a lingering thought that started off a good dead, intentionally. When does a good deed cross over to expose me as the bad seed? These laws have enticed me before. No, I do not live up to my name (only in thought).

The homeless girl replied, stuttering “anything you so wish sir. I can be your butler, slave, clean your dishes, scrub your…” “Enough!” I felt the fire melt up inside of me, I already had a maid. She agitated me enough; I did not need a new breed to rival her. “I have no money for people like you” I scowled at her as I walked away.

Upon repeating the story to the maid over dinner, she asked how it felt. Should I be knocking on Heaven’s door to give me my conscience back? Would it even be up there? Is heaven up? Then why are we ALL buried in the ground? Maybe hell is in the air. Maybe, just maybe, nobody really gets to go there. Maybe only a part of you. Maybe she’s there, maybe my soul. Maybe I should go and apologise to that smelly individual of a homeless child, but then maybe I’ll never see ‘her’ again, for she was a bitch.


Find The Luminous Memories of Alexander Vile by Natasha Jones [Kindle Edition] on Amazon HERE.

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