[Stylist] gothic?

Thu Oct 10 20:16:40 UTC 2019

Hi Chris, 
I definitely think this qualifies as "gothic." The first part, in which Dunham tells his tale, reminds me quite a bit of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
I love how we've been writing quite a bit more. 
Vejas 

> On 10 Oct 2019, at 11:53, Chris Kuell via Stylist <stylist at nfbnet.org> wrote:
> 
> 
> Hello,
>  
> Not sure if this qualifies as gothic or not, but here goes. As background, I live in Danbury, Connecticut. A hundred years ago Danbury was known as ‘hat City’, since there were 3 large hat manufacturers and something like 90% of the hats worn by men and women in the United States were made here. As the fashion disappeared, and the medical conditions associated with exposure to mercury (used in the manufacturing process) became better understood(see Mad Hatter’s Disease) in the mid 20th century the businesses went away.  
>  
> All comments welcome.
>  
>  
> Cursed
>  
> By Chris Kuell
>  
>  
> After nine hours of cubicle confinement at work, I enjoy sitting on my front porch with a  few cold beers, watching the world roll by. This evening, I was sitting in my usual spot when this old-timer ambled down the sidewalk and started poking through my trash.
>  
> “Nothing worthwhile  in there,” I said.
>  
> He turned to look at me as if the muscles of his neck were frozen, fixing me with a cold glare. it was difficult to see his eyes through the mulched flesh which was his face. What wasn’t covered by  a tangled, gray beard appeared as though it had been massaged with a cheese grater, then baked in the sun for a few weeks. His clothes, tattered nineteenth century rejects, looked like he’d pulled them from a dumpster at Sturbridge Village.
>  
> “Didn’t your mother teach you not to stare?”
>  
> “Sorry, “ I mumbled.
>  
> He cocked his head, eyeing me like an unusual specimen at the zoo. “If’n you’ll share one of those ales, I’ll tell ya my tale.”
>  
> Not fond of communicable diseases, I simply twisted off the cap and handed him a beer.
>  
> He nodded, took a long swallow, and licked his lips in appreciation. “You married?”
>  
> “Divorced,” I said. “Twice.”
>  
> “You’re better off. Women’s nothin’ but trouble.” He took a crooked finger and pointed to his gnarled face. “That’s how I ended up like this.”
>  
> He took a seat, drained his beer, and began. “Twas back in ’74. Harriet was a sweet thing, twenty years younger’n me, the eldest of farmer Woodfin’s three daughters. I had a good job at the Jenkins hat factory—Danbury was the hat capitol in them days. We had a nice house, went to church and town meetings regular, I thought everythin’ twas grand.”
>  
> I took his empty, and handed him another.
>  
> “Much obliged,” he said.”One afternoon, I cut my hand on the leather slicer, and old boss Jenkins sent me home. Imagine my surprise when I seen Jenkin’s boy leaving me house as I’m approachin. At home, I asks, ‘What’s Jenkin’s boy doing here?’ Harriet gets all red in the face, and tells a whopper about his findin’ a fine pair of ladies boots, and wouldn’t she like to have ‘em.”
>  
> He paused to drink, then wiped his lips on the back of a hand that looked like it had been through the smokehouse. “Next day, I see Jenkin’s boy, and tell ‘em if he goes near Harriet again I’ll show him what the slicer can do to a man’s arm. The little bastard just smiled, and says if’n I want to keep my job, and my pretty wife in fine clothes, I’ll just shut up and leave him be. I grabbed the first thing I could find, an iron paddle used in the tannin’ vats. Jenkin’s boy never smiled again.”
>  
> He scratched at something in his crotch, then continued. “After that, I lost my mind for a bit. I know I couldn’t let anyone find what I’d done. We had several tanks of kerosene out back. I poured some over the boy, on the machines, then I used my flint to start everything ablaze. In my hurry, I hadn’t noticed how much kerosene had splashed onto me, so I went up as well.”
>  
> He turned his grizzled face to me. “As the flames of hell tore at my flesh, I cursed the entire Jenkins family for what they’d made me do. All their decendents would burn the same way I had, every last one of them.”
>  
> I polished off my beer, contemplating the horror which this old guy had been through. Imagine doing that, committing murder, then disfiguring yourself like that. “I’m so sorry, Mister…”
>  
> “Dunham,” he said, standing and handing me his empty bottle. “Patrick Dunham. Thank ye for the hospitality.”
>  
> He wandered off down the sidewalk, leaving me to ponder his story. I grabbed my cooler and headed inside. The first thing I did was grab my grandmother’s bible. In it, she had a fairly detailed family tree. It didn’t take long for me to find the name I thought was there.  Hiram Jenkins, born 1834, died 1882. Two sons, Walter and Robert, and one daughter, Elizabeth. Elizabeth married Lewis Westfall, they had two daughters, one of whom married Herbert Townsend—my great, great grandfather.
>  
> Next, I googled, finding paydirt with the fourteenth hit. from the Newark Daily Advocate, October 2, 1874. A fire broke out at approximately four o’clock yesterday afternoon at the Jenkins Hat Company, 48 Elm Street, Danbury, Conn. Two employees,Patrick  Dunham, and Robert Jenkins, the owner’s son, were killed in the fire, and about two dozen others were treated for smoke inhalation. Damages are estimated at nearly $39,000.
>  
> It goes without saying, I went to bed pretty freaked out. Sleep did not come easy, and when it did, my dreams were filled with flames and sizzling flesh and burning hats. At first, I incorporated the buzzing sound into my dreams, but my coughing brought me from the depths of slumber into the firey hell of my room engulfed in flames, the smoke detector honking frantically before being consumed by the inferno.
>  
>  
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