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Upon The Rock
Upon The Rock
Upon The Rock
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Upon The Rock

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Upon the Rock is a blend of narrative voices and styles that tells the story of Marcus Baird, a gay man from Townsville, and Aemilius, a character from a novel set in Ancient Rome written by Aaron J Clarke. Marcus Baird hopes to win the author’s affections. His quest for love leads him to England where he is imprisoned in the writer’s house. During his captivity, he is forced to confess his darkest secrets with the hope of gaining absolution and, most importantly, Aaron’s love. Likewise, Aemilius hopes to win the affections of Culcita, a dangerous youth who threatens the Roman Republic. Aemilius’ quest for love results in him writing his life story and that of Rome’s, where deception leads to murder.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateNov 24, 2011
ISBN9781465722027
Upon The Rock
Author

Aaron J Clarke

Aaron Clarke was born in Queensland on 24th January 1973, the middle child of two sisters. Like many other children, he watch a lot of television. Then one day he changed the channel to the ABC and saw "A Midsummer Night's Dream". Immediately taken aback by the lyrical beauty, he wanted to emulate Shakespeare.Aaron enrolled at James Cook University to study chemistry and biochemistry. In his second year he experienced his first psychotic episode and was hospitalised for several months. A year later he returned to JCU as an English student and started writing short stories and poems, which have been published in student publications and on the Internet.Please contact me at < aaron.clarke@my.jcu.edu.au > to discuss your opinions regarding my work, as I would greatly appreciate your point of view. Please address your questions as 'Reader Feedback' in the subject line of your email. Thanks, Aaron.

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    Book preview

    Upon The Rock - Aaron J Clarke

    Upon the Rock

    Aaron J Clarke

    Copyright © 2019 Aaron J Clarke.

    All rights reserved.

    Smashwords Edition.

    Revised and Updated.

    With substantial amendments.

    Works by the Same Author

    Epiphany of Life

    The Sinner’s Kiss

    For Tanita, June, Jacqui, and Kellie

    who helped me become a better writer.

    Table of Contents

    Prologue

    Book I

    Book II

    Book III

    Epilogue

    Author Bio

    Notes

    "Upon the Rock" is a most interesting novel. Some have regarded it as Clarke’s definitive masterpiece, yet others consider it not worthy of critical appraisal. The critics holding the latter opinion have their reasons: they believe Clarke’s lack of insight into his characters makes his creation appear wooden: illustrated in their dialogue. His characters speak as though they are the same; thus, the critics argue, the author lacks psychological insight into his creation. His writing style is a hybrid of modern with a blend of the ornate. Thus, his characters lack realism and the reader loses sympathy for them.

    Critics, like me, applaud his offbeat story telling. Clarke changes narrative perspective. He introduces a mysterious first-person narrator, M.B., and then another, Aemilius. They are both linked; one is the narrator in the Roman novella, and the other is the reader who comments on it, as well as commenting on the author, Aaron. One could say I, too, am a creation of the writer. That, however, is another story, which I do not wish to tell.

    Prologue

    A story is a construction of the writer’s imagination. I know first-hand that Aaron’s fascination for me is reflected in his writing, and my portrayal in such works has forced me to speak out. I have no such feelings for him, and I am envied, and naturally, I must reject those of whom I regard as of little importance. I hope that my story of this writer’s obsession will illustrate a profound point: it is a waste of time in the affairs of the heart.

    My identity shall remain a mystery, I will tell you my initials, M.B., and I will divulge no further information. Now, let me start by introducing Aaron, who is a real person with feelings I do not share, or do I? That is what I am trying to figure out, so here goes…

    ****

    It was five, no, six years ago that I met him. I wanted to get away from him, but he hunted me. He began the conversation by asking me what my star-sign was, and it occurred to me that he was hitting on me, at the time, I did not like. I told him to, fuck off, and I thought that would be the end of it. He pursued me, and I felt a titillating terror of imagining his hand slapping my skin. Back then, he was slim, but he has become, over time, fat. In contrast, I remain as beautiful as before, and still I am admired in society. I felt if he tried and escaped from the nerdy image of the short crop of hair, pencils in his pockets and glasses, he would more than likely be on the good-looking side. From my friends, I learnt he was sent to ward 10 B, a psychiatric ward. I had reason to be fearful, and I felt that his fixation would lead to delicious danger.

    … Anyhow, I sat in front of the mirror and brushed my hair. I studied my snowy skin, and the way my hair slivered like plant tendrils. Happy with my reflection, I wished that I could drown in my perfection like Narcissus. Swiftly, my eyes glanced at a letter he had sent; I found its contents to be amusing, and his praising of my eyes, hair, and face made me feel flawless. His ‘flowery voice’ had an intoxicating effect on which I became delightfully drunk. The more he pursued me, the more he wrote letters, the more it ignited a response. In public, I displayed derision towards him, but in private, I cherished his writing. To keep him scribbling, I had to be cruel. His quixotic heart differed from other men, and because of his inherent nature, I kept my admiration buried deep in my conscience. He found perfection in me, and I enjoyed being told so. Addicted to flattery, I craved and actively sought it. He told me, I was an ardent dilettante of physical beauty. I did not know what that meant, but I became engrossed, judging and comparing men. Only now do I realise this aspect and that my friends were as conceited as I was, and that they had made me what I am today.

    Aaron said, The local gay community was a mixture of surreptitious affairs that had an incestuous feel about them, as person A would sleep with person B’s brother and maybe person C’s boyfriend. He smiled, and continued, You dwell in a small group, which thought you were on the highest of echelons, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Now Aaron has become a successful writer, and that my influence on him has had an enlightening effect on his work, I’ve decided his success is because of me and the more I reveal to you, the more, I hope, you will forgive my actions.

    … In all the years I have known Aaron, I have grown to love him, though I keep that a secret, until now. Now he has left Townsville and is living a world away from me, in England, I am stumped why I did not say something, just a word of acknowledgment, before he left.

    When I read in the Townsville Bulletin that he had won the Adam Smith Prize, I was under a spell of disbelief; it occurred to me that he had begun the long road to fame and fortune, whereas I have worked in a music store since I left high school. Where would my life lead me? I was a fool towards him, and now he is going somewhere; jealousy chained me. It was justice (that my life had taken a backseat), for all the terrible things I had done, so I believed. A thought crossed my mind; I would still work at a music store for the rest of my life. My unconscious mind beheld a grim prospect. I imagined my funeral and saw that my grave was a simple, wooden cross, and only a few people were there. Still, on the fringes of the cemetery, I saw Aaron and out of all the images I remembered of him, this one was tragic; his melancholic manner haunts my dream of what could have been: it showed a side of him that existed in the beginning of our affair that my malice could never extinguish. He loved me, and he still does.

    … Nothing in my life made sense; it was a mishmash of cause and effect. I was once good, yet the seeds of virtue were sown on poor ground and filled my life with heartache that began in my childhood. I remembered my sixth birthday when I knocked down one of my brother’s sandcastles. What I had done, I knew was wrong. I tried to soothe his screams with a piece of chocolate cake, but no matter how hard I tried to win his affection; he continued to cry. His screams sounded as though he was being attacked, I tried to silence him, for I feared my father’s fury. The fly-screen door bursts open like an exploding supernova. My father was in one of his drunken moods, a mood that spelt danger. Pure hatred gleamed from his eyes. He looked at us kids, and he wanted to know what all the ruckus was. My brother pointed his little finger at me, and the cruelty of my childhood was crushed under my father’s feet as he dragged me into the house. I knew that he would strap me with his belt. I deliberated, I would never love you, or anyone else. I laughed at him, knowing this would incense him to hit harder. He told me I was worthless.

    Ironically, I would inflict pain on others as my father did to me. He was an alcoholic and a bad one at that; he would drink most of his wages. With each passing day, I hated him more, and I wished he were dead. Why did my mother marry such a brute? Many years later, when she was on her deathbed, she said that it was my fault. Why was it? She read my mind and said, Your father knocked me up, and you were the product. So, I was not the product of love but a brief fuck. For the first time, I saw contempt in her eyes.

    A tear cascaded down my cheek -- an emotional avalanche, tumbling down my icy façade. My childhood and my unsuccessful love affairs had a penetrating effect on me. I realised my ‘tragic’ state just now. I wanted to scream at the image that was reflected in my mirror; instead, I continued to brush my hair; every follicle radiated unbearable pain. From my past, I assumed I had annulled any emotions; they were, however, buried under my deep layers of self-defence. I had spurned my true lovers and friends; only seeking pretend people. At the time, I did not realise that these people were bad for me. However, I acted my part in duping everyone, including myself. Aaron loves me. He was true when others scattered as if I was a burning building of scandal. Putting the brush down, I walked out of my bedroom into a long corridor. The walls were light green, a colour I assumed I liked, but the paint had cracked due to the hot Townsville summers. My apartment was not too far from Queens Gardens, a regular beat for young and old men alike. Queens Gardens was a few hundred metres away from the hospital. From one of my false friends, a Drag Queen, I had learned that Aaron was in the psychiatric ward. For over a month, he had forgotten to take his medication. Later, another told me that he had become a character from a Henry James novel. When I first heard the news, I laughed. It was a nervous reaction; I wanted no one to know my feeling towards him. I cherish my private introspection, and like an iceberg the tip stays exposed to the atmosphere of public inspection; the rest is submerged in subterfuge. I felt ashamed of my part in the games that others and I had played to gain a sense of satisfaction at his debasement in the local community. I played the part too well, until I believed what they said against him.

    Yet I felt pain when I did not see him, and I hoped to find him in Queens Gardens. At the foot of Castle Hill, the gardens had an unobscured view of the hill. From this vantage point, one could see the bright ochre protrusion of rock that thrust skyward and painted in the middle of the fissured face was a white saint -- symbol of the local university. The view from Castle Hill was unprecedented; one could see Magnetic Island, and, in the mornings, the sunlight reflected into a million orbs of gold. On one morning, I had taken a few days off from work, and I just hoped, by chance, that I would stumble across Aaron’s path. As the days grew shorter and my self-imposed holiday ended, I hoped and prayed that I would see him. On the next morning before the dew had evaporated off the flowers, and before the animals made too much noise in the small zoo that was located within the garden grounds, before the parrots shot forth like a barrage of colourful bullets of red, green, and blue, I looked back and saw him walking with a group of patients. His face betrayed an inner turmoil that was so clear I felt ashamed. I stared into his hazel eyes, which looked as though he had been beaten down into a state of abject despair. I turned away for I could not bear what I had driven him to. My heart throbbed with joy yet ached with regret.

    Later that day, I went to the cinema. I needed escapism to ease my troubled mind. I saw The Portrait of a Lady, a film that starred one of my favourite actors, Nicole Kidman. After buying my ticket, I walked up a flight of stairs to where the film was screening. I entered the darkened room. The theatre was near to being empty, except for an old couple, in the middle, and a younger man at the corner, whose face I did not recognise. However, I had a feeling that I knew him from somewhere. As the movie progressed, I studied how Kidman’s character behaved on the screen -- it was incredible, as Aaron had acted the same way. The same gait, the same persecuted facial expression, as I had seen in his deportment in Queens Garden that day: it

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