A Meeting with Mr. Dickens

It was, indeed, a strange prospect, finding Dickens on your doorstep.

"Well, woman? Are you to leave me standing here all night?"

She stepped back, astounded as Dickens entered her house.

"In here?" he gesticulated with his gloves to the lounge.

"Yes," she spluttered.

He pushed the door and immediately ensconced himself in the winged chair where her knitting lay abandoned.

"Sit," he instructed and she bristled but this man demanded deep respect. She sat.

"So," he started. "You are likely wondering why I am here?"

She nodded, not able to trust her voice, excitement, disbelief and nerves conspiring to make it weak or clumsy.

"I am led to believe that you fancy yourself a writer. Is this true?"

She nodded again.

He looked at her. Could this meek, hesitant, silent woman be the one who had audaciously tried to convey his character through her own writing?

"You know of me?"

"Yes," she managed to say, pleased she did not squeak nor burp.

"Good." He turned to look at the fire.

She waited. It was a minute before he spoke again.

"It is not easy being a writer." He paused. "Indeed, it is exceptionally hard work."

He continued.

"I, of course, am good at it."

Modest, she thought sarcastically, but uttered it not.

"And you could be too."

He looked at her directly again.

"I know of your writing marathon. I commend you for your determination."

Their eyes locked. Charles Dickens' twinkled back at hers, filled with wit and wisdom.

"Jack Dawkins."

She felt a flutter.

"My character. You took him, did you not?"

"Yes," she blurted, "but it was..."

Dickens held up his hand.

"Please. Stop. It cannot be undone."

He smiled.

"But there is a way it can be compensated."

He waved his hand and tome upon heavy tome appeared.

"Writing takes practice. But I think you'll find that a lot can be gleaned from reading too. And, of course, from a new challenge."

He waved to the book pile.

"In exchange for my forgiveness?"

She looked from him, to his books, and gulped.

"Is a year enough?"

Dickens frowned but before he could chastise, she found herself saying,

"Of course, Mr. Dickens."

***

366 words

Yep, I'm going to challenge myself to read the full works of Dickens this year. It is something with which I have always toyed as I have done with reading the full works of Shakespeare and maybe that is something for 2026. I don't think I could take them both on this year, two literary heavyweights.

I was not forced into doing this by having a visitation from Dickens, can I just say? But I reckon he could teach me a thing or two.

And so, we have arrived at the end at what has been an amazing year. Thank you. Thank you if you are reading this now. Thank you if you have read anything written by me this year. Thank you for sharing comments with me. Thank you, as the Golden Girls quite rightly state, for being a friend. Your encouragement and support along this road have been invaluable and I appreciate you more than you can ever know.

Thanks to L.C., the O.G., for setting the challenge and writing some masterful micros this year, dark, funny and moving; thanks to Gerard for the shout-outs after every piece as well as the variety of micros that he has managed to spin - I could list what he provides in his fiction but it would be long - and thanks to D.J., poet extraordinaire who produced work that was thought-provoking and literary and classical and philosophical and just so magnificent at times that it blew me away. D.J., we will not perish!

And thanks, Vocal, for providing this platform where I can publish my work so easily for all to see. You have made this smooth and I would never have been able to do it if your platform did not exist. It is a warm space of comfort for me and it is a place that I have enjoyed inhabiting this year, probably spending more time here than most other places in my life.

Thank you all.

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