The Last Shoemaker , livre ebook

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC - Rita Dasilva

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37 pages

English

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Description

Maurice Benedict is a frail old man with only his memories and a great power that once lived in his hands. As a young man, Maurice ventured to many places, but as an old man his only desire was Billy, the love of his life. When he was a teen, Maurice discovered his ability to time travel through the shoes he fashioned. But his ability begins to unravel and the years catch up to him. Will his power be his greatest foe, or will he find Billy somewhere in time and reclaim his life?

Sujets

Historical fiction

Informations

Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
Date de parution	28 juin 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781645750512
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0175€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Last Shoemaker
Rita Dasilva
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-06-28
The Last Shoemaker About the Author About the Book Dedication Copyright Information Acknowledgement The Last Shoe The First Shoe The Last Shoe The Second Shoe The Third Shoe The Fourth Shoe The Fifth Shoe The Sixth Shoe The Seventh Shoe The Dark Times The Last Shoe The First Return The Second Return The Last Shoe Epilogue
About the Author
Rita Dasilva was born and raised in Ontario, Canada, where she pursued her creativity in the arts. She earned her bachelor’s degree in English Literature and Language from the University of Windsor. The Last Shoemaker is her debut novel.
About the Book
Maurice Benedict is a frail old man with only his memories and a great power that once lived in his hands. As a young man, Maurice ventured to many places, but as an old man his only desire was Billy, the love of his life. When he was a teen, Maurice discovered his ability to time travel through the shoes he fashioned. But his ability begins to unravel and the years catch up to him. Will his power be his greatest foe, or will he find Billy somewhere in time and reclaim his life?
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my mother, without whom none of this would be possible; and the memory of my father.
Copyright Information
Copyright © Rita Dasilva (2019)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Dasilva, Rita
The Last Shoemaker
ISBN 9781645750499 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781645750482 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645750512 (ePub e-book)
The main category of the book — Fiction / Historical
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 28th Floor
New York, NY 10005
USA
mail-usa@austinmacauley.com
+1 (646) 5125767
Acknowledgement
I would like to acknowledge my son, my true inspiration, for everything I do.
The Last Shoe
A cool breeze warms me. The smell of freshly trimmed grass lingers. I am reminded of a summer day from another life. Now I am a caricature, a drawing of decay, never good enough to be the real thing, but merely a replicated image. I am a piece of my former self, no longer a whole. The person I used to be lost beneath the wrinkles, the lines, the gray hair, and the crippling arthritis. Soon death will find me and I will welcome his call.
In my younger days, I knew no end, impatient to complete a task and move ahead. And now, at the ripe age of 83, I long for a beginning. My life is no longer my own. I smile at the thoughts of yesterdays, when youth filled my body with vitality and momentum. There were days I wish to never forget and those I pray I do. Yet, there are moments, lost, never to be found, no matter how I try to gather my thoughts, moments I wish I could have kept forever.
Age is cruel. It comes quickly and takes all of you. It transforms you from youth into a frail withered being unable to stand on your own. Time has consumed me and left me but a weak old man incapable of self. So I make my last shoe; unsteady hands bind the soles, thread the needles, and buff the leather.
The First Shoe
In this world there are shoemakers and there are shoemakers. Maurice Benedict was the latter of the two. He was born in a tiny village, the only child of the cobbler and his wife, the summer of 1935. And when he was sixteen years of age, he was tasked with making his first shoe in his father’s shop. Indeed, he did just that. The smell of fresh leather as he snipped and cut filled his nostrils. He stretched the leather out and began to stitch. Hours later, the shoe was perfect. The customer would be there in the morning to pick it up. Boastful of his work, he walked around the shop holding up the shoes. Of course, no one else was there to catch his gleaming eyes and gallant walk. He placed the shoes on the front counter and turned to leave.
But something deep inside him urged Maurice to try the shoes on. It was, after all, his work.
Carefully, he placed each shoe on each foot, tying the laces. Then before he could take a step, a great darkness stretched before his eyes and he plummeted to the ground.
I still remember that first shoe, the feel of her supple skin on mine, the taste of her lips…
Maurice awoke to a strange room with the rustle of sheets next to him. He adjusted his eyes to his new surroundings. A figure lay beside him in an unfamiliar bed. His heart began to beat rapidly. Slowly he reached his hand out and undressed the figure, pulling the sheet down. There she lay, the farmer’s wife, partially nude. His manhood grew hard and erect. She stirred and turned to face him.
“Good morning,” she addressed him.
“I can explain.” He fumbled for his words.
“Explain what?” She looked down, “how happy you are to see me.” She smiled, elated.
“You could say that.”
She grabbed him, pulling him down toward her, then she climbed on top of him, her hand reaching for his cock.
“Whoa!”
“What? Why are you acting like you’ve never done this?”
“No reason, no reason at all, proceed.”
She raised her eyebrow. “Proceed? Okay.” She quickly put him inside and began. The pleasure engulfed him. Orgasmic waves of endorphins surged across his body. “Oh yes!” she screamed. He came. Where the hell was he? A dream, but so real. Had he taken a leave of absence from reality?
“God, we should do that more often,” she said, laying down next to him.
“What?” He looked at her, eyes wide.
“Don’t act so shocked, big guy, we are married.”
“Married?”
She raised her brow again and a bit of concern showed in her voice. “Okay, what’s going on with you this morning? You’re not acting like yourself.”
“I just need to go to the bathroom.” Maurice hurried out of bed, feeling awkward to streak across the room in the nude.
When I first looked in that mirror and saw the farmer staring back at me, I nearly fell over. The strangeness of the situation was unparalleled. And in the next room, a beautiful woman waited where I left her, naked on a bed covered in my dew; except it wasn’t me, it was the farmer and somehow I was him.
What was going on, why was the farmer’s face staring back at him from the mirror? He looked down at his body and his hands. Not his own. He knew he was not dreaming, every sensation was real. Yet, somehow, he had become the farmer. It was morning, that he knew for certain, and last night he was sixteen and at his father’s shop and now this morning he was a thirty something year old man with a wife. The shop, the shoes he tried on…
It was the farmer’s shoes, but how did that equate to this?
“Honey, are you okay in there?” the farmer’s wife called out from the bedroom.
“I’m fine, be right there.” What was he supposed to do, he just had sex with the farmer’s wife, what if she wanted it again?