Here’s a story that Alasdair entertained Bruce and Jeffrey with while they were all waiting–for Edgar–
“Now, shall I tell you a story about how I was inadvertently the inspiration in part for one of your beloved icons of literature?”
Jeffrey and Bruce looked at each other.
“That sounds very intriguing,” Bruce said.
Alasdair nodded, gathering his thoughts for a moment.
“It was in London, in February of 1843. I was hunting the streets because I was in one of my blood fever periods, and pickings were very good. There were quite a few homeless and poverty stricken unfortunates living in the alleyways. I wore a long flowing cloak to hide my pale, stark appearance, and my hair was unbraided. I remember that it was rather cold, snowy, and windy for the human element that evening, and I was waiting just inside one of those alley entrances. I looked up and a young gentleman about thirty years of age had paused at the alley entrance and was staring right at me, right into my eyes, and I into his. It only lasted a few seconds, then he disappeared, but I followed him to his rooms. He intrigued me, and I undoubtedly scared him more than a little. I found that he was a writer, a novelist. I popped in to visit him quite a few times while he was working, and he must have thought I was a ghost of some sort because I never spoke to him. I ended up in his next novel, though. It was published in December that same year. I rather enjoyed it.”
Bruce’s eyes grew very wide, and he looked at Jeffrey, who looked equally disbelieving.
“I would have no reason to lie, now would I?” Alasdair said with a small smile.
“The–the author was Charles Dickens, wasn’t he?” Bruce said.
“The very same.”
“Then–you were the Ghost of Christmas Future?” Jeffrey said. Alasdair smiled.
“Yes. Fitting, don’t you think?”
More snippets here–so much variety. Alasdair loves variety 🙂